


Ghost

by Asylum94



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drinking Games, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Mythology, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Bromance, Slow Build, Stiles Stilinski & Malia Tate Friendship, Unconsciousness, ghost!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8095873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asylum94/pseuds/Asylum94
Summary: The pack is navigating college and they thought Beacon Hills was monster-free. But, of course, it can't stay that was for long.Stiles has to figure out why Scott is lying to him and if it has anything to do with the monster attacks, but then gets attacked himself. The key to saving himself may lie with the only person he doesn't ever want to hear from again, of course, because that's just his luck. Three guesses who that person may be.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> At first this was inspired by the movie Ghost with Patrick Swayze and Whoopi Goldberg, but it has diverged quite a bit. Enjoy y'all.

London wasn’t quite what Jackson had expected. It wasn’t _bad_ exactly. But different, definitely different. Maybe when his parents had found out about his…condition…and decided to uproot their family and move them (him, let’s be honest, they moved because of him) to the U.K., Jackson had pictured a city similar to Beacon Hills but with British accents.

Hah. Not quite.

And honestly, he should have done his research first. Taken a BritLit class maybe. There were a plethora of British T.V. shows he could have watched in preparation for the move. The Fall, Southland, Shameless… hell, Lydia wouldn’t shut up about that show Skins when she was binge-watching it back home.

He should have done some sort of research, because the culture shock left Jackson wide-eyed, dumbfounded, and quite humbled. Things were smaller here, crowded and cramped. The houses felt more like hallways squished between other houses that felt like hallways. Another thing, people here liked to drink. A lot. Jackson had no qualms about guzzling down a flask and a half of booze on prom night back in high school or engaging in the occasional bar hop, but too much beer would ruin his pristine abs.

Plus, werewolves can’t get drunk. So.

Maybe perfect werewolf abs can’t pudge out either? Huh. Every werewolf he knew had pretty nice abs. Add that to the Unknown Werewolf Facts list.

Whatever. The point is, the move to London a few years back left Jackson kind of shell-shocked. It changed him, but it was a change for the better. Even Jackson could admit that. Without the pressures of his social group to be cool and his coach and lacrosse team to be the star, he was able to quiet down and become less of, well, a douche. The werewolf thing probably changed him a little bit too.

After Jackson’s parents had re-relocated to Paris (because they wanted Jackson to live every werewolf cliché that existed), it left him pretty much alone in the world to do his own thing. But Jackson had wanted to stay in London, because he was not ready to do the whole culture shock thing again, no way. Just the thought of leaving and starting all over again for a second time, in a place that was unfamiliar, in a home that didn’t smell like home (werewolf thing? Add it to The List) made him nauseous. It was fine with him that his parents left. He was close to his parents, sure, as close as any adopted kid could be. But there was never a real, true familial connection between them. No common thread of a shared bloodline that bonded them together. Jackson had never really felt that in his life, but he knew what it would feel like if he had it. He knew because he _missed_ it, craved it like some kind of ever-present, nagging ache.

Once, for a moment, Jackson thought he felt it, his junior year of high school right before he moved here. Thought he felt that skin, bone, soul deep bond that made him think he finally understood the phrase “blood is thicker than water”. That connection of family.

But it was too fleeting to really tell.

He reminisced on that time now, while his forearms were braced against the pillows on either side of the red-haired girl’s face. A few beads of sweat were dewed up in the crease of his spine that ran all the way from between his shoulder blades down to his lower back, and the girl ran her fingertips over them. Her eyes, a muddy brown mixture, briefly met his before she snapped them shut. Jackson continued his methodic thrusting.

“Mmmm, yeah. Right there, yes.” She urged. And really, how did he land himself in the middle of a bad British porno? He rolled his eyes, then quickly snapped them back down to make sure the girl didn’t catch the gesture. Luckily, her eyes were still firmly clamped shut.

He’d picked her up in one of the bars near his college earlier that Friday evening. Well, to be precise, _she’d_ picked _him_ up. He hadn’t been meaning to leave with anyone, just to blow off some of that freshman-year-just-ended-and-finals-killed-me steam with his buddies. But this girl had flipped her locks over her shoulder and for a second, Jackson could have sworn he was staring at Lydia across the bar. It didn’t take much after that for her to coax him away from his classmates.

(“Take me home,” she’d whispered, and Jackson got that strange jolt in his chest that he felt anytime someone mentioned the word “home”. His apartment was only a few blocks away, but to take her home, he’d have to fly her five thousand miles away from here.)

However, it didn’t take longer than the seconds required to get their clothes off for Jackson to realize that this girl was absolutely not Lydia Martin.

Rubbing a thumb over her tiny breast (so not Lydia), Jackson shut his eyes and willed his body to feel what it used to, to recognize the sensations and pulses and warmth surrounding him. It did, eventually, because hey. He may be jaded, but he’s still a guy with needs.

-

“I dunno if they make them all like you in the states,” the redhead, he hadn’t gotten a name, said as Jackson walked her out to the sidewalk. “But, bloody hell, if they do, I’m hopping on a plane tomorrow.” Jackson grinned in answer; then she pecked him on the cheek and was off.

Jackson leaned against the brick wall of his building, watching her go but not really seeing her. It had been almost four years since he left Beacon Hills, yet he still thought of that town as his home. Which was stupid. So stupid. Who even thinks about where they were four years ago? Washed up athletes with knee problems. Girls whose freshman fifteen pushed them over the line from curvy to fat. Students whose top ten GPA got them into the best colleges, only so that they could flush their scholarships down the toilet, along with their alcoholic vomit. Losers that can’t come to terms with the fact that their glory days are days gone by.

And Jackson, apparently.

He crossed his arms over the thin tank top covering his chest. He thought about home a lot. He functioned here; he didn’t hate it. But this place wasn’t his home. He fished his phone out of the deep pocket of his sweatpants, pulling up his contacts. Scrolling past Danny and Derek, and pushing so fast past the L’s that he could barely see them, Jackson paused on the name McCall.

It wasn’t the first time he’d considered texting Scott, but he never followed through. They were never actually friends…but Scott was decent. If anyone would accept a call from Jackson now, it would be McCall. But once again Jackson was sure he was the only loser that still thought about calling someone from four years ago and then _didn’t even actually do it_. McCall had probably forgotten about him; he probably had a life and friends, was probably googly-eyed over some new girl, probably still butt-buddies with Stilinski, cause that was a forever thing. Jackson didn’t want to interrupt his life, to be a nuisance, especially when he didn’t have a real reason to call (‘I miss you’ was simply out of the question).

It was appropriate, really, that amidst all these thoughts about home, old friends and his past life is when he’d heard him. That smooth, familiar voice he was sure he would never hear again.

“Well, she was cute.” It teased from an alley between his building and the next. “You certainly have a type, Jackson.”

And there, halfway down the alley, leaning surreptitiously against the wall and starring at him with alpha-red eyes, was none other than Derek Hale.

-

“So why are you really here?” Jackson posed the question carefully. Their reunion had been amicable thus far, comfortable even. True, Jackson and Derek had had their issues in the past. Derek had even threatened to _kill_ Jackson several times but hey, what’s done is done. There’s something about seeing someone from your past after a long period of time, even someone you were never close to, that renders a sense of comradeship between you. Derek was lumped in with that whole clique from Beacon Hills that he sorely missed. His was a face that came from home.

But the question of why had loomed over them as Jackson led Derek back to his apartment and they sat chatting at his crappy kitchen table. Jackson rarely had dinner guests, so he’d had to dig a folding chair out of the closet. He made tea.

Pretty weird, huh? Tea in England with Derek Hale.

Derek placed said tea down before meeting Jackson’s eyes. “I need a place to stay.”

“For how long?”

“Until I can find my own place.”

“Your own place where?”

“Here.”

Jackson quirked an eyebrow. “You’re leaving Beacon Hills?”

“For now.”

“Not only Beacon Hills, but…the entire United States of America?”

“That’s right.”

Jackson furrowed his perfectly manicured brows. “And you tracked me down, all the way to the U.K. _Me._ A person you’ve previously threatened to kill. To the exact bar I was in tonight. Waited for me to have my fun with that girl and for her to leave. All to ask me if you could crash on my couch?” Jackson nodded more to himself than to Derek. He wasn’t as shocked as maybe he should have been.

His query was met with a silent stare from Derek. He waited, but it was clear that their friendly conversation earlier didn’t translate when it came to any personal information.

“Why?” Jackson pressed.

Derek shrugged. “Cheaper than a hotel.”

Jackson scoffed. “Why are you leaving?” More silence from Derek. Good to know some things never change.

“Cheaper, huh?” Eventually Jackson gave in. “Alright, I’ll put you up.” He pushed himself up from the table and headed around the counter into the small kitchen. “But not because you need a place to stay. No. I’ll put you up because I think you need a friend.” Jackson chuckled at his own self-progress. “It’s always been clear that you’re loaded, don’t try to deny it. I know you lived in that shell of a home for a long time back in Beacon Hills, but I also know that it’s not because you didn’t have the money to go somewhere else. Your family was well off even before that fire, and there’s no way you didn’t get some type of insurance settlement when you were old enough.” He busied his hands with tidying the kitchen. “There are plenty of cheap motels around here even if you somehow pissed away all your money since I left. There are other places you could have gone.” Jackson finished cleaning his mug and put it in its proper place in the cabinet. “But maybe not many other _people_ you could have called.” Then he turned and braced his arms on the counter, looking Derek straight in the eye. His voice softened. “I think you’re running, Derek. I think you’re running and you need a place to hide.”

Still, Derek was silent. But he was also the first one to break eye contact, dropping his gaze down to read the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.

“The couch is a pullout.” Jackson offered, slipping around the counter to grab some extra blankets from the closet. “Sheets are fresh-”

“Pack.” Derek mumbled into his mug.

Jackson paused. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t need a friend, Jackson. What I need is a pack.” Derek stood and took the blankets from Jackson’s arms. “Thank you.” He said, and Jackson’s mind almost exploded because he never thought he’d hear such sincere gratitude from Derek freaking Hale. It wasn’t desperate; it wasn’t pleading. Just a genuine appreciation of hospitality.

He also recognized Derek’s confession about needing a pack for exactly what it was: a proposition.

As Jackson lay in bed later that night, he wondered if it was that easy all along. To simply show up in someone’s life and suddenly feel like you were no longer alone.

Shivers erupted down his spine when he also wondered what the hell could have been so terrifying to make Derek flee the country.


	2. Never Have I Ever

“Scotty! Hey!” Stiles bounded to Scott’s bedroom door and hammered his fist against the thin wood. “Wake up! First day.”

Stiles hurried around the humble kitchenette and connecting living room, grabbing books from the shelf that he and Scott had built last year, filling his canteen with water from the tap (no _way_ he was using another plastic water bottle ever again after taking that environmental course last semester), and snatching his backpack up off the floor to stuff with all his things. 

Food? Yeah, Stiles was going to need food, and Scott certainly would. They were both too broke to afford the cafeteria meals, so Stiles wrenched the refrigerator door open and thrust in his head to look for some sandwich fixings. He grimaced as he stared down two mostly empty shelves and one full of half empty bottles of alcohol.

“Hey, Scott, let’s go, seriously, you can’t be late! It’s your first day back, no slacking.” Stiles pulled out the milk and took a whiff. Ugh, _not_ good. Stupid lazy werewolf. Scott could probably smell the pungency from his bedroom, and he couldn’t throw out the sour milk when he was the last one to use it? “Not after last semester,” he muttered from inside the fridge. “I’m determined to raise your GPA if it kills me.” Then, louder, “Hey! Scott, I know you can hear me! I want you out here and showered in the next five min-AGHH!”

 Stiles closed the fridge and was face to face with handsome dark skin and Alpha red eyes.

“How bout the next five seconds?” Scott grinned, offering a steadying hand to his unbalanced friend.

“Yeah, great, but how bout not giving me a coronary embolism before I get my bachelors?” Stiles smacked his shoulder. “How did you get ready so fast? You were asleep not five minutes ago.”

Scott chuckled, pulling on the straps of his book bag. “No, dude, I wasn’t.” And then Stiles caught the tail end of some very long black hair and red-checkered pants slipping out the door.

“Oh gross. We share a wall, dude. Couldn’t you at least put a sock on the door? Isn’t that the rule in college? Seriously, it’s just courteous.”

“First of all, we’re in a house, not a dorm. That’s a dorm rule. Second, people do that when they share a room so that one person doesn’t walk in on the other doing intimate-”

“Okay, yes, I get you. Say no more, _please._ ” Stiles tossed Scott the rank carton of milk, a canteen of his own filled with ice water, a sandwich that Stiles had wrapped up efficiently in a towel (eliminate the plastic), and his sociology textbook, one right after the other. Scott caught everything with ease and packed his bag.

“Plus,” Scott continued. “We’re all adults here. If Kira and I want to spend the night with each other, we shouldn’t have to hide it.”

“I’m sure her parents harbor a similar sentiment right? All adults, able to make adult decisions? Go stay at her house once in a while.”

Because honestly, it was hard to take anyone seriously when they were speaking about intimate adult activities if the first time you met them, you peed on their sandcastle in the sandbox.

Their friendship had come a long way.

“Shut up, you know they don’t.” Scott whined.

“Kira should move in with Malia. She could help her study, so I wouldn’t have to go over there every night.” Speaking of which, Stiles checked his phone. Yep, sixteen texts from Malia.

“Dude, Malia’s place is tiny. I don’t think Kira wants that. And she likes living with her family, her parents. It’s not like she depends on them,” Scott shrugged. “But they’re a family, a unit. They want to be together.”

Stiles understood that. After high school, he wanted to be out on his own, he did. He wanted the independence, the freedom, the responsibility, and all the struggles that came with those things. He wanted to share a place with his best friend, shoot the shit out of some zombies on the giant ass TV they could barely pay for until 3 in the morning even when they had 8AM classes to get up for the next day. He wanted a quiet place to study when cramming for exams, he wanted to eat junk food and not be told to clean his clothes off the floor. He wanted to get a gym membership and not be told it was a waste of money. He didn’t want to have to inform someone every time he was leaving the house and then text them every time he got home safely.

He wanted to come home and not worry about what kind of monsters might be following him there 

He wanted to be his own goddamn person. But he missed his dad like crazy. He worried about him, too.

It’s not like they never spoke. They spoke quite often, actually. It was usually about good things, too, happy things. Stiles would fill his dad in on all his classes, tell him he made the Dean’s list last semester. He would tell him about his mission to help Malia earn some sort of degree (even if her grades weren’t perfect, she could at least get credit for all of her classes) and how hard she concentrated when they studied together. And his dad would tell Stiles about new members on the force, and how he found health food recipes online and was actually following through with cooking them.

But it wasn’t the same. It was different than living together. Throughout all their phone calls, Stiles knew that his dad would hang up the phone and then turn around to be greeted by an empty house. He wished more than ever that his mom was there to take care of him.

Stiles led Scott into the crisp September morning. “Whatever, you and Kira are lucky you’re cute together, otherwise I wouldn’t stand for any of this. Kick you two out on the street is what I’d do. If you kids are living under my roof, you’re living by my rules understand me?” Stiles wagged a finger in Scott’s face, which he promptly swatted away. “The least you could do is make me breakfast once in a while, you know, butter me up so I don’t get so cranky about all the hanky-panky going on in our apartment. When absolutely none of it involves me. Console a guys forlorn heart, at least.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s your heart that’s the most forlorn part of you.” Scott shot him a shit-eating grin and dodged an elbow by scurrying down the driveway.

Stiles took a moment before following to look around the living room and kitchen, which were pretty much the same room, separated only by a counter that jutted out from the wall. Bright sunlight shone through the large bay window and Stiles could no longer ignore the evidence from a few nights before – their last hoorah before the second year of college started. Red solo cups were tilted on the floor and leaking indeterminate alcoholic fluids. Clothes were half way visible from under the couch, and a heap of high heels occupied the corner next to Stiles’ bedroom door – the owners would be back eventually to pick them up. Stiles was pretty sure at least one pair was Danny’s.

His gaze snagged on the two adjacent doors interrupting the wall to his right. His room and Scott’s - sharing a wall. Sharing a life.

He smiled to himself and locked the door. Things had certainly changed since he was a nerd with one friend in high school, but he was glad he still had that one friend by his side.

- 

“So, syllabus is on your desks. Each one of you delinquents needs to buy the textbook, and I don’t want to hear any complaints about how expensive it is. You’re all saving a buttload of money coming to a community college, so purchasing a textbook for ninety-eight bucks shouldn’t break anybody’s budget. Buy one less keg for all of your delinquent activities and you’ll be just fine.”

“Coach, some of us are here because it’s the only college we could _afford_. I would have to forgo food for a day.”

“It’s Professor Finstock in here, Mahealani, and I just said I didn’t want to hear any complaining! But for those of you who would starve because the mandatory textbook is too expensive, we can work out some kind of payment plan. See me after class. Now, who can define the term _sociological imagination_ for me….”

The classroom was fairly large for their humble college campus - they were in one of the few lecture halls. Despite the change in venue, Professor Finstock looked confident as ever in front of the class of fifty students. Coach had a “Mr. Feeny” thing going on with the students of Beacon Hills. He had taught economics throughout their high school careers, and somehow they all had him as a teacher all four years of high school. Then they graduated, and he got a job coaching college lacrosse. Only problem? There weren’t any economics positions open on the staff.

And coach had a passion for sociology. Who knew?

Stiles wasn’t stressed about Soc 101, especially since Finstock was teaching it. He chose a seat in the back of the crowded lecture hall – a perk of getting to class early on the first day, he learned, was the luxury of choosing a seat for the semester. There was an unspoken rule in the college classroom that people stayed in the same seat they chose on the first day. Maybe that was some kind of sociological phenomenon he could write about.

He was, however, stressed about the few classes Scott was taking without him.

“Hey, let me see your schedule again?” Stiles reached over and grabbed the paper off Scott’s desk.

“I’m worried about Com 105,” Scott whispered without looking away from the PowerPoint. “I don’t know anything about computers!”

“I think Danny’s taking that class, too. Although, administration probably let him skip it. Even if they didn’t, I bet he could have hacked into their system and let _himself_ skip it. He could probably still help you though.”

“Bet he’d charge me. He seems desperate for cash these days.”

“Who isn’t?”

“Stilinski!”

“Coach?” Stiles tossed the schedule back on Scott’s desk.

“That’s a German name. Define the German term on the board. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s Polish.” Stiles furrowed his brow.

“All the same, define the term.”

“Uh, Verstehen. Yeah, sounds like some kind of deli meat.”

“Wrong! Verstehen literally means, ‘to understand’.” Coach moved from the PowerPoint to walk around the semicircular teaching space at the base of the hall. “When conducting research, social scientist must try to understand others’ views of reality and the subjective aspects of their experiences, including their symbols, values, attitudes, and beliefs.” He said all of this as if he was vaguely annoyed about it. “Something you would have known if you had _purchased and read the textbook._ ”

Coach continued on with his lecture, and somewhere in the back of Stiles’ mind he felt sorry for the students who hadn’t had the privilege of experiencing Coach’s unique educational style before. They were probably intimidated. They’d learn that picking on people was Coach’s way of saying, ‘I like you, kid’.

Stiles had had a stressful time that day. Being in college was about perpetually heightened levels of stress. He was concerned about his English 300 class and the fact that he needed to read Beowulf and prepare a thesis statement by next week. He was tense about Scott taking three classes without him. He was stressed when Malia texted him saying, “first algebra test scheduled in 2 weeks!” He was anxious about not being able to get home to have at least one meal with his father during the upcoming weekend.

But none of those things caused him the most disquiet. He felt the most nervous after he left campus, on his way back to his house, while Scott was at lacrosse practice. And the cause of the height of his panic?

Seeing Peter freaking Hale strolling down the sidewalk in the middle of the sunny afternoon.

-

It happened when Stiles was walking back to his road alone. He was finished with classes for the day, and it was still light outside, warm enough to enjoy the light breeze across his face. With headphones securely in place, Stiles was minding his own business, glancing at the passing cars and letting his mind wander to the chapters he would have to read that night, the cleaning he would probably be doing alone, and the food that he didn’t have in his fridge. It was so unbelievable to see Peter ambling away from the crowded college campus across the street that Stiles actually stopped short.

Stiles wasn’t dumb enough to approach him. Things concluded on a fairly amicable note between Peter and the group at large, sure. Didn’t mean he wanted to run up to the guy and exclaim, “Oh my gosh, where have you been?” and invite him out for a cup of coffee. No thanks.

But he also wasn’t dumb enough to ignore the prickling that crept up his spine and settled just below his hairline. A Peter Hale sighting was never a welcomed one. Never meant anything good.

The casual saunter and absolute confidence with which he walked on the opposite side of the street didn’t do much to curb Stiles’ suspicions. Knowing how difficult it was to inconspicuously follow a werewolf, especially a former alpha (he’d tried it once with Derek. Stiles was _convinced_ Derek had a date and was avoiding all questions on the subject. Turns out he just wanted to go see the newest Marvel movie alone. He was privy to Stiles’ stalking pretty quickly, and was waiting with two tubs of popcorn when Stiles followed him into the theater), he stayed several yards behind Peter and never crossed to his side of the road. The town was bustling so Stiles was banking on his distinct step being muddled with the patter of the crowd.

Where exactly was Peter going? What was he back here for? None of them had heard from him after graduation, after he had worked with the pack to control that family of wendigos that was feasting on people who were jailed at the station.

Stiles was trailing behind Peter for several minutes before Peter turned a corner. They were quite far downtown now, just on the boarder of Beacon Hills Town and the Beacon Hills Preserve. The buildings here were scarce, mostly empty fields or patches of forest neighboring the sparse houses. Stiles cautiously crossed the road, not putting it past Peter to be lurking behind the edge of the building, waiting to pounce.

Luckily, there was no pouncing. Instead, Stiles observed Peter push through a revolving door, the three spokes continuing to spin even after Peter was passed them.

Stiles had followed that muscly, deep V wearing monster straight to…an apartment building? Through the modern glass windows, Stiles watched Peter shake hands with a woman in a red business blazer and a tight skirt. In her hands she clutched a manila folder thick with paper. She led Peter toward an elevator, which they promptly boarded together.

Shit, what was Peter doing here? By Stiles’ examination, that woman could only be a realtor.

Peter was looking for an apartment in Beacon Hills? Unless he was planning to, like, eat that woman or something.

Stiles shuddered, but put that thought out of his mind. Peter was scum, but he wasn’t usually violent without some sort of motivation. Verstehen, right? Coach would be proud of him for applying his classroom knowledge to real world situations so quickly. Stiles understood that Peter was narcissistic and a dick, but he didn’t kill at random, without some sort of motivation. That poor woman was in for some creepy conversation and annoying sarcasm, but Stiles doubted that she was in any kind of real danger.

This? This is the type of situation that really needed a werewolf. Extreme hearing powers and all that. At least then he would know if that woman was being mauled. Stiles whipped out his phone and dialed Scott.

Ring…ring…ring….

No answer.

But when his eye caught the time, Stiles felt stupid for expecting one because duh, it was 4:30 and Scott was in the middle of lacrosse practice right now. He typed out a text:

_Peter’s back. Followed him to an apartment building downtown. Waiting for him outside. Going to_

But Stiles paused, fingers hovering over the keys. What exactly was he planning to do? Follow Peter around all night? The sun was just beginning to set over the tops of the trees, but it would be dark before Peter was finished in the building if he was, in fact, looking for a new place to live 

Things had been quiet in Beacon Hills for a while now, almost an entire year. They staved off some fairies the beginning of freshman year, but since then there hadn’t been a lot of supernatural hoopla in Stiles’ life. Peter hadn’t really done anything except come home. He didn’t contact any of them. No threats. No random “mountain lion” attacks.

Maybe Stiles was looking for trouble, or at the very least expecting it. Danger and the threat of death had been a pretty constant thing in his life for a long time. Now that things were fairly peaceful, maybe he didn’t quite know how to deal with it.

Suddenly feeling extremely stupid, Stiles backspaced the text, spared one last glance to the apartment building and headed back toward his own home.

-

“Stiles? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Thanks for getting back to me _two and a half hours later_. How was practice?”

“You called me to ask how practice was?”

“No, idiot. Practice hadn’t even happened yet when I called you.” Stiles cradled his cell between his ear and shoulder. “I called to tell you I’m making dinner tonight. Malia’s coming, so you should tell Kira to-” Stiles was interrupted by three quick raps on his door. “Uh, tell Kira to have her butt at my table by eight pm sharp or no desert!” Stiles wiped his hands on a towel and wrenched the door open.

“Hi, Stiles!” Kira’s hundred-watt smile greeted him from the hallway.

Stiles palmed his cell and glanced suspiciously at it. “Damn, you guys are quick.”

“Is that Kira?” Scott chimed from the phone. “Hey, tell her that I’m coming home soon-"

“Oh, no. I’m not your love messenger…anymore. Tell her yourself.” Stiles handed his phone off to Kira and went back to chopping vegetables at his cutting board. Kira hopped through the door, already chatting a mile a minute with her lover-boy. Stiles didn’t understand their relationship. It was like they had to be talking to each other all the time.

Kira plopped herself on the sofa, crossing her legs underneath her and offering Stiles a smile that felt comforting, like he had just eaten chicken noodle soup, and an eager wave whenever he glanced up.

And then, somehow, Stiles understood why Scott was so eager to talk to Kira. The girl was warm, okay?

Stiles busied himself with preparing the food for the three hungry canines and himself, tuning out Kira’s giggles…

-

“If you add any more croutons, you’re going to ruin it.”

“How do you know-?”

“I can smell it. Put them down, Stiles.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and slammed the bag down next to the Caesar salad bowl as Derek continued to stir the sauce that was simmering on the stovetop. How the hell did Stiles get roped into this? Oh yeah, his devious, manipulating, evil little friends. That’s how. Someone had the bright idea of “pack dinner nights” and that meant sharing the responsibility of cooking. There was a chart. Somehow it was decided that Stiles was going to be teamed up with Broody McBrooderwolf on pasta night.

“Who made you the pasta sovereign anyway?”

Derek didn’t honor him with a response, or even a glance for that matter. Stiles checked his phone. Scott and Kira weren’t coming over until 7:30. An hour and a half to go…Stiles could _not_ endure that much time in silence with Derek.

“Pass me the parmesan.” Derek held out his hand.

Stiles scanned the countertop. No cheese to be found. “Uh.”

“Fridge.”

“Right.” Stiles popped open the stainless steel refrigerator door and grabbed the container of grated cheese. It was hiding behind a few cases of Budweisers. Handing it off to Derek, he asked, “Beer? I always pegged you for a wine person.”

“It’s not for me.”

Stiles nodded. “Well then, if you don’t mind.” He snatched a beer from the pack and retrieved the bottle opener from his key chain to pry it open.

“‘S fine.”

“I thought werefolk couldn’t get drunk.”

“We can’t.” Derek answered.

“Then why…” Stiles trialed off. “Forget it,” he muttered, quaffing down his first beer in a matter of minutes and eagerly grabbing another.

But there was only so much silence he could take. Peeling the label from the bottle in his hand, he said, “So…not feeling particularly loquacious today are we?”

“Figure this will be as painless as possible without you rambling for the next…” Derek glanced at the stove timer. “Seventy-nine minutes.” 

“Sure. If by painless you mean torturous. Insufferable. Unbearable.” Stiles glanced at Derek. He continued to stir the pot of sauce as if he had not heard Stiles speak. “Agonizing. Intolerable. Excruciating; filled with ennui….”

“Ennui?” Derek snorted. “A night with you could be a lot of things. Boring is not one of them.”

Stiles chose to ignore the possible insult there. He tipped his head back and downed the remainder of his second beer. “Let’s not make this night any different then. Can’t we, like, play a drinking game or something? Not that I’m pressuring you to drink. Don’t want to pressure you to do anything. But since you can’t get drunk anyway-”

“I’ll play if it’ll make you stop talking.”

“Technically I’ll have to keep talking, but whatever, I’ll take it. So here’s the game.” Stiles returned to the fridge, retrieved two more beers and handed one over to a skeptical looking Derek. “It’s called Never Have I Ever. One of us says something that they’ve never done, and if the rest of the players have done it, they drink. First person to finish his beer loses.”

“I’m familiar with the game.”

“Really?” Stiles piqued, brows furrowed. “ _You’ve_ played Never Have I Ever before?”

“Is that your first question?”

“No. So yeah, I guess I’ll go first then. Never have I ever…” Stiles hesitated. He didn’t actually think he would convince Derek Hale to play a drinking game with him. Derek turned toward him and rested against the counter next to the stove, skeptical scowl twisting his mouth. “There are a lot of things I could have used here before you roped me into your werewolf wrongdoings. But now I’ve run from the law, witnessed the supernatural, had _numerous_ close encounters with death-”

“The game is not called ‘Things I Want To Complain About,’ Stiles.”

“I’m just saying! Okay, fine, never have I ever run away from home.”

Derek took a sip of alcohol. Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but before he could manage, Derek was interrupting.

“Never have I ever been so drunk that I’ve blacked out.”

Stiles took a long swig, and Derek did that eyebrow raise that he was so good at. “Really? When?”

“That’s not part of the game. Have to leave some mystery.”

“Tease.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

Stiles side-eyed his companion suspiciously before trudging on. “Never have I ever mutilated anyone with my wolfy fangy superpowers.”

Derek huffed, raising his beer to his lips and taking a drag. “Never have I ever played a drinking game to bring up a part of someone’s past that they regret just to make them feel ashamed.”

“Oh. Shit. That wasn’t my _intention_.” Stiles bit down on his bottom lip, which was numbing from the alcohol.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Stiles gaped for a moment before pulling himself together and taking a sheepish sip. “Um…never have I ever been a cat person.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “This is pointless.”

“Okay, wait, wait, don’t waste that.” Stiles implored, holding his hand out to prevent Derek from dumping his beer down the drain. “So, definitely not a cat person then. How ‘bout…” Stiles hesitated. He didn’t want to push his luck. “Never have I ever done something that I’ve never spoken about to anyone.”

Derek eyed Stiles over his bottle. Very deliberately, he took a sip. Stiles licked his lips.

“Never have I ever had someone in my life that I could tell anything to.”

Stiles sipped. “Perks of having a best friend since kindergarten. Never have I ever _wanted_ someone to know all of my secrets. Well, actually I’m okay with it, but whatever, we’re bending the rules.”

Derek remained immobile. After a moment he offered, “No one needs to know everything.”

“But isn’t that a lot of baggage to carry by yourself?” Stiles tilted his head. “If I couldn’t tell Scott about Lydia shooting me down, about my dad drinking too much, about crazy werewolves bashing my head into steering wheels…”

“Never have I ever apologized for bashing a poor defenseless human’s head into a _padded_ steering wheel.”

“Apology accepted.”

Derek smirked. “Thanks.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Thought it was already changed.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Never have I ever used deflection to shift attention from uncomfortable topics.”

“Liar.”

“Fine. We can both drink to that one.” So they did.

Derek turned around and added some spices to his sauce. With deft fingers he peeled open the pasta box and poured the thin, ridged noodles into simmering water. “So you tell Scott everything? There’s nothing he doesn’t know.”

“Nope.” Stiles said, popping the ‘p’. “Well, I mean, there’s some stuff.” Stiles picked at the moist beer label. “But that’s only because there’s no possible way that someone can know every single thing about another person without actually being that person. There’s nothing I would keep from him if he asked.”

“Would you tell him about us?” Derek asked, not looking up from stirring the noodles. “Playing this game.”

Stiles stared at the back of his head. “Sure,” he shrugged even though Derek couldn’t see it. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“No reason. Never have I ever been attracted to someone in the pack.”

“You only say that because you’re losing. Do I take a gulp for every person I’ve been attracted to?” Stiles smirked around the head of his bottle.

“One’s enough.”

“It’s not fair with all of you,” Stiles gestured to all of Derek and hoped he got his point across. His tongue was beginning to feel less dexterous in his mouth, and he didn’t trust it to articulate the rest of his sentence. “Werewolves get instantly hot when they turn. Or are born. In your case.”

Stiles let the remains of his third beer slide down his throat, mostly to make himself stop talking. “Well, this one’s kicked.” He hopped down from where he was perched on the counter to grab another from the fridge. The buzz made him stumble, but Derek was quick to brace him. And suddenly Stiles was against his giant werewolf chest and gripping his massive werewolf biceps and-

-

“Stiles? Scott wants to know if you need him to pick up anything for dinner tonight?” Kira called. Then, back into the phone, “Yeah, it smells so good!”

Stiles shook his head, clearing his mind. “No, nah, I’m good. Just tell him to get here.”

“Okay, see you soon!” And Kira, finally, hung up the phone. “He’ll be here in ten. Can I help with anything?” Kira abandoned the couch and looked over the stove with curiosity.

Stiles gave Kira salad duty, not quite trusting her to set the table without dropping any of the glass plates.

“I brought desert.” Malia, poised as always, announced as she slammed through the door with absolutely no warning whatsoever. She left it to hang open behind her. “Smells good. Can we eat yet?” And before Stiles could turn around and greet her, she was pressed up against his side in the small space between the counter and stove, her nose in the simmering pot.

“Could you not, please?” Stiles said with a flourish as he nudged her out of the way. “It’s not ready yet.”

“When? I’m starving.”

“Soon. We have to wait for Scott anyway. Hey!”

“Ow!”

“Stop sticking your fingers in things that are not ready yet! Go sit somewhere.”

Malia obliged with little protest. The girl was blunt, but Stiles had to give her the benefit of the doubt. She listened very, very well.

-

Another hour saw Stiles perched on the very edge of the couch facing the door, his leg jiggling incessantly with anxiety. Kira was pacing back and forth in front of the window, periodically peeking through the blinds.

Still no Scott.

“I’m calling him.” Kira announced.

“You called him 6 times already.” Malia snorted, unaffected, over her copy of _The Scarlet Letter_. “His phone probably died.”

Kira took out her phone anyway. Her black-nailed fingers got halfway through dialing when Malia snatched the cell from her hands. Glowing blue eyes gave a warning. Kira retreated.

Stiles was quicker on his feet.

“Scott, seriously,” he moaned when he got Scott’s voicemail. Again. “I’m afraid Malia’s gonna tackle me and guzzle down every last drop of this chicken noodle soup if you don’t show up soon.”

“Sorry, sorry I’m late!” Scott tumbled into the apartment, breathing hard.

Stiles eyed his phone suspiciously. “Is that a supernatural thing? Call me, beep me, if you wanna reach me? Cause that could definitely come in handy.”

Kira ran to him from across the room. She gripped his arms. “Where were you? I was starting to get worried.”

“I just…got held up.”

“Held up where?” Stiles questioned.

“Nowhere, uh, at practice.” Scott didn’t quite meet Stiles’ eye. “Coach wanted to go over plays.” He muttered. “But I’m starving. Smells great. Can we eat?” Scott’s now shifty eyes jumped from his feet to the kitchen table.

“God, YES!” Malia was already at the table, spooning a heaping ladle full of soup, dripping broth from the pot to her bowl. The noises she made when she took her first, second, and tenth bites (all before the rest of them even had food in their plates, bless her) were pornographic.

Stiles eyed Scott as they chatted over their meals. He couldn’t help but notice that Scott didn’t eat as much as his werewolf metabolism usually called for.

-

Sneaking out is a thing that teenagers do to go see their secret girlfriends. It was what children did when they wanted to run away from home, or what troubled youths did when they wanted to go drink and smoke at the park in the dead of night. Waited for their parents to go to sleep and silently popped the window open. Avoided tramping on the flower beds. Wiped the sweat from their necks and made sure they were home before the sun came up.

Stiles was not Scott’s parent. So why was he sneaking out after Stiles went to sleep?

-

ENG 262, PSY 271, and PHI-124 dragged the next day. There were barely any familiar faces in each class (not that Stiles had trouble making friends, he just didn’t want to okay?), but it was hard to focus. 

He was distracted at the library, although it didn’t take much concentration to commit to memory the vocab from sociology that Coach has assigned. Verstehen, sociological imagination, social structure, ascribed and achieved status… Scott was on his mind. It was unusual for them to keep things from each other. Scott had lied before to many people. Many, many people, including his own mom. But he very rarely lied to Stiles about anything. From the dreams that he occasionally had about Allison to who clogged the bathroom toilet, Scott was honest with Stiles.

Things felt unbalanced. At least he didn’t see Peter again. 

But he wasn’t distracted enough not to realize that it was Tuesday and it was late afternoon. His dad usually called sometime after his shift on Tuesdays. Maybe he was peeved at Stiles for not responding to his texts this weekend.

Stiles called him. He didn’t answer until the fourth ring. 

“Hello?”

“Hey dad! It’s Stiles.”

“Oh. Hey son.”

“Hey. Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t text you this weekend, I was running around, you know, buying last minutes school supplies and making sure Scott was ready.”

There was shuffling on the other end, but no reply.

“I don’t want to worry you or anything because everything is good over here. I’m eating enough. Sleeping enough. Generally abiding by the law…and…Dad? Are you listening?”

There was distinct murmuring somewhere in the background. His dad laughed softly.

“Huh? Oh yeah, no worries Stiles. Schools going good?”

“Going well.”

“Great. I gotta go son, I’ll talk to you soon.”

And that was the end of that conversation. Stiles cocked an eyebrow at his phone as he hung up. What was that all about?

He received a text several minutes later: _Can you and Scott come home this weekend?_

His dad was acting strange. He wanted both him and Scott to come home this weekend? Together? What, was he Scott’s dad now too?

 _See you Friday!_ Was his response.

-

So Friday came, and it saw Scott, Stiles, the Sheriff and Melissa sitting around Melissa’s dinning room table, chatting away.

“Mom, can you give Stiles this Chicken recipe?” Scott chomped on his second piece. “It’s delicious.”

“You can’t cook for yourself?”

“ ‘Tile’ doe’ all the coo’ing,” Scott attempted through a mouthful.

“Uh-huh. Does he teach you proper table etiquette as well?”

“Apparently he needs a few more lessons.” Stiles grinned.

The sheriff cleared his throat. “So boys. We called you home this weekend ‘cause we miss you, that’s a given. But we also have something to discuss with you.” The Sheriff closed the small distance between his hand and Melissa’s, cradling hers in his. She smiled warmly.

Stiles blinked. Then he blinked again, just to make sure his eyes weren’t fooling him. Without looking away from his father and Melissa, Stiles incessantly tapped Scott’s arm. All the peas that were on the fork en route to Scott’s mouth tumbled back to the plate. “Hey! Stiles, what man?” But Stiles had lost his voice. He could only shake Scott’s arm violently and keep on staring.

When Scott finally followed Stiles’ stare, his fork dropped to his plate with a clang. “Oh my God. MOM!” Scott exclaimed. And then a glint of shine caught Stiles’ eye and his mouth actually dropped open.

A ring. She was wearing a dainty albeit gorgeous freaking _engagement ring_.

Stiles had obviously been at college for a decade because holy shit his father was betrothed and Stiles didn’t even know he was dating again.

Scott must have seen it too, because he reached over and snatched his mother’s hand. “I didn’t….” He sputtered. “When did…you two…how did you…MOM!” He stood so abruptly from the table that his chair fell over.

Stiles turned wide eyes on his father, who suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable. “Scott, I’m sorry.” The Sheriff put his hands up. “We didn’t mean to upset you-”

“Upset- no, this is great!” A smile erupted on his face and it was slightly wild, but Stiles was feeling just as blindsided. “Congratulations!”

Then the three of them - Scott, Melissa and the Sheriff - were all standing and hugging and Stiles stood too, to pull his dad into a tight, tight hug. “Congrats, dad.” He said throatily when he finally found his voice again.

“Thanks, son.” The Sheriff breathed into Stiles’ ear, giving him a good squeeze.

He hugged Melissa and then they were all kind of hugging and some of them were crying and if one of those criers was Stiles than that was his own damn business.

When they all dried their eyes, Stiles clapped Scott on the back. “Dude,” he grinned. “We’re brothers now!”

Scott’s face fell. “Wait,” he said earnestly. “We weren’t brothers already?”

“Well, yeah. But now it’s official! Holy shit!”

“And as my son’s new brother-to-be, I will remind you to _watch your language_ , Czesław.”

Stiles blanched, eyes going wide as saucers at the sound of his (very secret) birth name. “Dad!” He rounded on his father.

“What?” The Sheriff shrugged, tilting his head back. “You said only family and medical personnel could know, and now technically Melissa is both, so….”

Stiles blew out a long breath through his pursed lips. He pointed a warning finger at Melissa. “Fine. But use it sparingly.”

He quickly retracted said finger when Melissa raised her eyebrows and placed her hands on her hips. Scott sniggered behind him. “Uh…please?” He amended.

“I’ll use it as I see fit, Stiles.” Melissa stalked past him and followed the Sheriff into the living room, probably to cuddle up on the couch or go make out (ew) or bake a cake or whatever engaged people did. “And clean up the kitchen, boys!”

Stiles stared after them.

“Dude, Czesław?” Scott scrunched his nose and grinned at the same damn time.

Stiles glared and punched him in the shoulder.

As weird as it was that his dad was engaged to marry his best friend’s mother, it was even more weird that it actually wasn’t weird at all.

Weird, right?

Nonetheless, now he could go to sleep at night with one less worry plaguing his dreams.

-

“Married!” Scott intoned from the passenger’s seat of Stiles’ jeep Sunday evening. Scott and Melissa and Stiles and the sheriff had acted very much like a family until Stiles and Scott had to drive back to school. “Our parents are getting _married.”_

Stiles chuckled. “I know Scott. I used to wish for that when we were kids.”

“I still can’t believe it. My mom said they want to have the wedding soon. Something small. It’s nice to know she has someone looking out for her now.”

“I’m glad they make each other happy.”

Scott regarded the buildings whirring by outside the window. Stiles tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. The weekend had been a whirlwind. There wasn’t much room for Stiles to think about coursework or anything else that was going on beyond his father and Melissa and their broken families making each other whole again.

But now, sitting a foot away from Scott in the silence of his Jeep, Stiles couldn’t help but circle back to his qualms about him. It’s not the way he wanted to start the next chapter of his life with his best friend. The unwelcomed thought floated into his mind and their proximity suddenly made Stiles squirm.

The comradeship of the weekend was quickly being drained by Stiles’ suspicion.

Scott pulled his eyes away from the window to squint at Stiles. “Stiles?” He said cautiously, catching the switch in his mood. “What’s up man?”

“Nothing, it’s just…. Listen, Scott. I just want to make sure…” He paused. Confronting Scott was not an art he was particularly practiced in. “Did you…. You didn’t see anything…there’s nothing else going on that I should know about, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“The other night. When you were late to dinner?” This was weird. Stiles didn’t know how to approach his friend like this. They never lied to each other. “Just want to make sure everything’s okay.”

“Everything’s fine, Stiles.” Scott clenched his jaw. But he perked up when he said, “No worries man.”

-

“We have a problem.” Stiles started. He plopped down on Malia’s couch-slash-bed in her cramped single room apartment the next night after class and threw his feet over the armrest.

“I know, I can barely move from serious soup-belly.” He had brought her leftovers, of course. It was a thing Stiles learned: don’t enter Malia’s dominion unless you come bearing food.

“I mean with Scott.”

“What’s wrong with Scott?” Malia held her stomach with one hand, pushed Stiles’ legs off the couch with the other, and sat down.

“A lot of things. But there’s one thing in particular that I’m worried about.” Stiles plopped his legs in her lap. “He was being weird at dinner the other night.”

“I didn’t notice anything.” Malia pulled her backpack toward her, pulling out her math textbook and highlighters. She elegantly shoved three pencils in her mouth so she was able to get everything out of her bag.

“Trust me, I know when my best friend is lying to me, and he was lying about where he was the other night.” Stiles shook his head, huffing an exasperated sigh.

“Has Scott ever lied to you before?”

Stiles shook his head. “No.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“Yeah, and he said everything was fine.”

Malia’s eyes were now glued to her book. “Ever think that maybe he has a good reason for not telling you whatever it is that he’s not telling you?”

“No.” Stiles sneered.

“Maybe you should trust him.”

“Or!” Stiles exclaimed, bolting up. “We could confront him about it.”

“If he’s not telling you the truth now, what makes you think asking him about it again will change anything.” Malia leveled him a flat look. She flexed her eyebrows at him in a way that was eerily reminiscent of her cousin.

“I guess you’re right. Me asking him won’t change anything.” Stiles side eyed his companion. “Which is why you should ask him.”

Malia snorted, glancing over at him. “No thanks.”

“Come on, Malia! I have to know if Scott’s hiding something important and werewolfy!”

Malia wrinkled her nose without looking up from her homework.

“What if he’s in trouble? What if he doesn’t want us to know what’s going on because he’s trying to protect us, when really we could be helping him.”

“Unlikely.”

“I have to know.” Stiles scooted up close to her. He gave her his best Scott-puppy-dog impression. “Please?”

Malia stared back for an agonizing moment. But, mercifully, she rolled her eyes and caved, flopping her hand into his lap. “Give me your phone.”

“No, it’s got to be in person. You can use your coyote prowess to tell if he’s lying.”

“Ughhhh. Stiles-”

But Stiles pushed Malia up from the couch and ushered her toward the door. “It’ll be fine, come on. It won’t even take that long.” He flung her her coat and pushed her out into the hallway.

“You owe me.”

“I _love_ you.”

“And you owe me.”

“Fine. Go!”

Stiles nudged her one last time and swung the door closed. And then there was nothing else for Stiles to do but wait. And wait. He paced up and down Malia’s one room, feeling claustrophobic but not daring to leave. He was getting somewhere with Scott, and the prospect of an answer had him on edge. Trying to keep himself busy, he tidied up the space, folding blankets and tossing them over the back of the couch, hanging the pile of clothes in the corner neatly on hangers. Malia kept this place feeling more like a den than an apartment.

After a while there was nothing more for him to do with his hands, so he pulled Malia’s textbook into his lap. Scanning the pages, he realized it would not be overwhelmingly difficult to help her through the semester. He was grateful that she was lagging so behind in her studies.

Finally, his phone rang and a photo of Malia’s bright smile lit up the screen.

“Hey, way to take forever. What did you find out.”

“Stiles!” And at the voice on the other end of the phone, Stiles’ heart sank. It was Scott, and he was panicked. “You need to get home now!”

“What happened?” His rasped, barely able to speak.

“Just get here!” And the line went dead.

Pocketing his phone, Stiles lunged to the couch for his keys and raced to his jeep. His palms were sweating and slipped when he wrenched open the car door. It was only years of experience with driving under pressure and luck of avoiding any police vehicles that got Stiles home ticket-less and in one piece.

Ignoring the stich piercing his chest, Stiles tried not to imagine what he would see when he burst through the door.

It wasn’t good. He could hear Malia screech the second he shut off his Jeep.

The next hour flew by in a blur. When Stiles saw Malia writhing and arching on the couch, eyes protuberant and teeth bared, the first thing he wanted to do was surge toward her. But Scott’s voice cut through his tunnel vision when he growled, “Stay back!” in his double-toned alpha tenor. Stiles’ eyes snapped back to where Malia was slashing at anything she could get her claws on, including a nasty swipe towards Kira’s face that caught her just below the eye. Her and Scott were doing their best (which didn’t seem to be enough) to hold Malia down on the couch.

“What happened to her!”

No one answered. Scott dodged a slash to his stomach.

"Scott, what the hell happened?"

"Something got to her." Scott said, reigning back to stay out of reach of Malia's claws.

"What? What got to her?"

Stiles needed to do something, he needed to call someone. He tried to swallow but his throat was bone-dry. He mentally flipped through his contacts as quickly as he could, but came up short of an answer. Malia screamed in agony.

When Stiles would look back at this, he would feel ashamed at how long he had been rooted to the spot and staring open mouthed as his friend screamed her throat raw. When he finally realized that she was screaming words, mostly “It burns! I’m burning!” it had finally jolted him into some kind of action. He did the only logical thing he could think of. Sprinting to the kitchen, he dove under the sink and snatched the red bucket they used for cleaning and filled it with ice-cold water.

Malia was clawing at her chest and leaving short sporadic gashes in her own skin when Stiles was finally able to carry the bucket to the couch and pour it over her body. Her spine arched and she screamed one last ragged screech before collapsing, breathless, back onto the sofa. 

Scott’s hands hovered over hers, wary of any aftershocks she may experience. But Malia was breathing deep and heavy and relieved.

“What…the hell…happened.” Stiles panted, tossing the bucket back towards the kitchen.

“She was attacked.” Kira said somberly as Scott examined the slash across her cheek, stroking his thumb just below it.

“Attacked? By who?”

“Not a person. A thing.” Malia whimpered. Her hair was matted to her forehead from the sweat glistening on her skin. Dark violet bruises bloomed on her wrists and up towards her shoulders. Her claws and fangs had since receded. “It looked like a light. A bright blue light.”

“You were attacked by a light.” Stiles said in a flat tone. “Sure. Why not.”

“It was…it called to me. Like it was luring me towards it and it was impossible to resist.”

“It had tentacles.” Scott offered.

“You saw it?” Stiles threw a glare towards Scott.

“He got there just in time.” Malia rasped. When she tilted her head towards Scott, Stiles saw the bruise around her neck and had to look away.

“I’m sure he did.” Stiles’ nostrils flared.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Scott stood and faced Stiles.

Stiles tried to keep his voice calm. He tried to give Scott the benefit of the doubt. But Scott sneaking out and then Malia getting attacked? No coincidence.

“What was it that attacked her.” He didn’t mean to sound accusatory so fast, but he couldn’t help the flicker of anger in his eyes, the tremble in his voice.

“How should I know?”

“I don’t know, Scott.” Stiles raised his arms. “But I know you’re hiding something from me.”

Scott shook his head. “Like what?”

Heat flared in his gut. He clenched his fists, vexed at the innocently confused cock of Scott’s head. It became difficult for him to contain himself. Didn’t Scott see? Whatever he was hiding was getting people hurt.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Stiles’ voice shook. “Maybe where you’ve been sneaking off to in the middle of the night?”

Scott blanched. “How did you-”

“We live together! You thought I wouldn’t notice you sneaking out the front door?”

“Scott, what is he talking about?” Kira said softly.

“Nothing.” Scott growled, not taking his eyes off of Stiles. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re right, I don’t! So why don’t you enlighten us. You’ve been acting weird all week, so why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”

“You don’t need to worry about it. That has nothing to do with this.”

“I do when it’s putting the people I care about in danger!”

“Don’t act like you’re the only one who cares about her.”

“If you cared about her than you would have been honest with us and maybe none of this would have happened!” Stiles bellowed, chest heaving and arms in the air. It was all he could do not to shove Scott in the chest. “You’re keeping secrets, and now Malia is hurt. You can’t ignore that!”

“There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing. You don’t understand-”

“You’re right. I don’t understand my friends lying to me. I need to go.”

Malia sat up feebly. “Stiles, where are you going?”

“Out.” And he slammed the door behind him.

-

The open air was chilled even without a breeze to bite at his face, but Stiles could barely feel the cold. His feet carried him fast enough that his breath trailed in a forgotten mist behind him. Blunt nails cut into the flesh of his palm as he tightened his fist in a rage. How could Scott be so stupid? He was getting people hurt; he could have gotten Malia killed by the look of that bruise on her neck. What was he doing that was worth keeping secret?

Maybe it’s a matter of pride at this point. He’s been silent for so long that he felt like he couldn’t break now. Well, his pride was liable to dig someone an early grave.

Werewolves and their goddamned pride. What was with them? Stiles shook his head, trying to draw a breath deep enough to evaporate the frustration roiling in his stomach. Derek had been the same way sometimes.

No. Stiles couldn’t think about Derek. Not now. Thoughts of him seemed to seep into his mind at the worst of moments to make bad situations worse. Memories of that asshole always managed to force their way back to make Stiles’ emotions even more intense…

-

Derek pulled open the heavy sliding door to the loft absentmindedly, his nose buried in the book he was reading. Several loaded bags of groceries dangled from each of his arms as he descended the stairs, and he gingerly placed them down on his kitchen table. There was a discernable crease forming between his brows as he studied the page of his book. He switched hands as he let the handles of the grocery bags slide off his arms. He began putting away the perishables.

“Watcha reading?”

“Art of War by Sun Tzu.”

“Are we going into battle?”

“Figured it would be good to study,” Derek muttered. After a long moment he stopped short, eggs hanging in his hand halfway into the fridge. His eyes snapped up. “Stiles. What are you doing here.”

“Ah. My dad and I had a fight?” The lanky kid stood from where he had been curled up on the couch. On _Derek’s_ couch. His long fingers assaulted an empty coffee cup, curling and uncurling the tin top, drumming an uneven beat against the tin.

“And that requires you being here.”

“No. Well, not exactly. It’s just that Isaac is at Scott’s and I kind of needed a place to crash for the night so I figured you’d be able to-”

“No.” Derek barked.

“Rude.” Stiles shot back. “Listen, I’m not saying you need to put me up for days or anything, I just-”

“I said no, Stiles. Go home and make good with your dad.” Derek turned his back and continued to sort his food.

“Bet you’re glad Scott and I made you get that kitchen set now, huh? What did you do before?” Stiles rounded the sturdy kitchen table and started putting groceries away. 

“Managed.”

“You know, you should really get reusable bags. Plastic is _so bad_ for the environment. I’m taking an environmental lit course next semester, and-”

“Stiles, you remember me telling you that that key was for emergencies only, right?” Derek gave a sarcastic smile. “Plastic bags are not an emergency.”

“Actually, they are. You would think so too if you read _Garbology_.”

Derek rolled his eyes aggressively, silently accepting the fact that Stiles wasn’t going anywhere. “What did you and the Sheriff fight about?” Derek asked grudgingly.

“Moving.”

Derek tried his best to ignore the annoying lurch in his gut at the word. He tried to keep his tone neutral. “You’re moving?”

“Yeah. Well, eventually, you know, after graduation I want to move out. My dad wants me to stay home, save money. But I told him that I’m not waiting to start my life, that I want to be my own person, that I’d live with roommates in the shittiest apartment I can find until I have enough money for my own place. It got kind of ugly. We don’t usually fight, but when we do…”

Derek nodded. “The Sheriff doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you want to mess with.”

“But he’s not the sheriff to me. He’s my dad.” Stiles dropped his eyes and shook his head. “Sometimes he doesn’t listen to me. He thinks I’m still the hyperactive kid I was when I started high school. I’m graduating in less than a week. Things have changed, and they’re going to continue to change.” At this, Stiles looked up to meet Derek’s gaze. His voice went soft, deeper. “I think, maybe a lot of things are going to change.”

And with meeting Stiles’ honey-colored eyes now, it suddenly hit him. Smacked him right across his oblivious face. Derek was wrong before. Stiles wasn’t a kid anymore. Not at all. His hair was longer, his shoulders were broad, developed, and he was right. He was different than the kid Derek had met that first day in the preserve. But Derek was different too. Maybe Stiles had something to do with that.

Derek realized he was staring, probably for too long, and went back to packing the fridge. Avoiding Stiles’ eyes was hard when he kept looking at him _._ _Don’t make me punch you, Stiles._

“Derek,” Stiles caught his arm and he tensed, knowing what was about to come. And he didn’t want it. He didn’t want this anxious feeling in his gut, the flare of heat that attacked his face and neck.

Stiles took a step closer, crossing the line from possibility to intent. “Derek, tell me not to and I won’t.”

But Derek couldn’t. In fact, he couldn’t say anything. He could only let himself be kissed. He could barely control himself as he threw Stiles up against the wall and later onto the bed, his sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes.

He also couldn’t control himself from fleeing a few short days later.

-

Stiles fisted his hair as his feet pounded the pavement, carrying him farther down the street. The preserve hovered at the edge of his vision. He turned towards it, hoping to clear his head of deserting lovers and lying friends.

Before he could venture far into the foliage, something alight in the distance caught Stiles’ eye. A very faint blue light glowed, adrift somewhere deep in the preserve. He could just barely see it.

Stiles stopped short. Maybe that was it. That was the thing that attacked Malia.

Stiles wanted to turn around and run back to his friends. He knew that this thing, this unidentified entity, was potentially dangerous and that he should flee screaming. But something stopped him. Something prevented his legs from turning around, froze his muscles, cemented his feet to the pavement. This light felt familiar somehow, like someone he had known but forgotten. It certainly didn’t feel like an enemy.

His eyes widened as the sight of the light consumed him. His impulse to shout for someone, which had been so strong a moment ago, had gone. Tranquility washed over him. 

Curious, but cautious all the same, Stiles edged towards the glow. His fingers found the bark of the nearest tree and the gleam seemed to grow a shade brighter, as if it knew that Stiles was there, as if it was excited at the presence of him.

This light encouraged him, so Stiles ventured deeper. The farther he journeyed into the forest, the closer he felt to the captivating blue glow. Once again, he felt an inexplicable familiarity towards the refulgent light. He kept inching closer, wanting to know where the light emanated from. It was dark in the preserve, surrounded by dense foliage, and Stiles couldn’t see anything outside of that floating sea of blue, but he didn’t care. He didn’t need to see anything else. Nothing else mattered. All that mattered was the illumination of the trees and the leaves and the ground bathed in blue. He felt safe.

Stiles was close now, close to the edge. He could almost touch the light…he reached out…his fingers trembled, excitement pulsing through them…surely the light would be warm, inviting. But as he stretched, the light retreated. It never dimmed, but moved slightly out of reach. It fell back into the trees; Stiles followed it with measured footsteps.

Stiles longed to catch the light; he knew it would feel warm. Just the thought of it, the sight, made him feel airy, like every problem he’d had today and every day of his life had vanished. He longed for that serenity. He felt weightless, like a cloud; he felt a glow just like that light held tight in his chest and he knew that if he could just touch this light, that feeling would spread through his fingers and his toes and his entire body, and every worry that he ever had would be replaced with bliss.

He was getting closer to the source now, he knew, because the light got smaller. Not dimmer, it never dimmed, but more concentrated. It was like the dawn just before the sun peaked over the horizon. Stiles ached to see the sun. There was a thick bit of brush now separating Stiles from the light, so he roughly forced it aside. And then he saw her.

She was beautiful, overwhelmingly so. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew it was true. The light surrounded her, no, _came_ from her, from the center of her beautifully unclothed body. Incredibly long iridescent hair hid her face, billowing despite the still air. She looked like the birth of a flame. Stiles barely dared to breathe, not wanting to spook her. Instead, he reached out a hesitant hand.

He needed to touch her.

She reached a hand back and connected with him, enveloping him in her light. Stiles felt like everything in his life, everything in the world was warm and cozy and perfect. Peace washed over him like a wave upon the beach as she flowed closer, her curling hair tickling his neck.

Stiles’ heart swelled, felt full to bursting. The effervescent emotion moved up his chest into his throat so he could scarcely draw a full breath. It brought tears to his eyes.

Still, he could not see her face, although she was right in front of him now. Hot breath brushed over his cheek; she was trying to tell him something. Stiles held his breath, listening.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered into the wind.

Stiles obliged, letting his lids flutter closed. And then she kissed him, and her lips felt pleasantly warm on his, like he would never feel a chill again. He stayed completely still, knowing, somehow, that this was what she wanted.

Stiles felt soft all over, like he had no bones left in his body. Her lips were still warm, getting warmer. And warmer. Too warm.

A breeze picked up, and Stiles felt the ghost of it across his face, but it was wrong somehow. No, no, this was wrong, he felt too hot now. Boiling.

He tried to pull away from her, to break the kiss, but her hair curled around his arms and body like serpents and bound him to her. Suddenly he was chained and immobile.

Struggling, he pulled his face away. She wouldn’t yield. Stiles snapped his mouth shut, but she forced it open once more. No, no this wasn’t right. She had to let him go, he didn’t want this anymore! He wanted out, now. Stiles kicked and squirmed, but she never released her pernicious grip.

He was being drained. She was exhausting him of everything he had: energy, happiness, life. Someone called his name. Far away, but he heard it on the edge of his consciousness. He wanted to call back, and he tried, desperately, but his voice failed him. It was too tired to work. His whole body felt tired, like she was depleting his life force. His mind fogged.

The glow of blue faded from behind his closed eyes to be replaced with black, and no matter how much he tried to concentrate, no matter how much he longed to answer that person somewhere shouting his name, all he could do was fall deeper into the darkness that was consuming him.

There was a moment, just before he fell, when Stiles felt the pain of a crash. But it was fleeting, because just after he felt it, everything vanished. 


	3. Ghost

Stiles woke up in a hospital bed. He was in a room all by himself that was artificially lit, too white and smelled like some kind of antiseptic. It burned his nose.

Acting on instinct, he quickly took inventory. Neck, spine, arms, legs, face. He gently, very gently, wiggled each area, flexing the muscles surrounding the bones and staying wary of any pains.

Shockingly, Stiles felt no pains. He checked his body over again, tilting his head from side to side, rolling his spine, bending each arm and each leg. He even balled his fists and clenched his toes. He felt nothing, and he was damn grateful. He didn’t even feel that ache behind his eyes that plagued him after every encounter with the supernatural.

That motherfucking light-bitch, he thought with bitter shame. Stiles would get her; he would beat her ass down for putting him in the hospital again. His dad had enough crap to worry about. His friends and he had been hospital-free since that troll pushed Kira off a bridge and Derek _made_ her get her head checked out (grade two concussion…the girl had a thin skull).

Stupid beautiful creature. Stupid enticing blue glow. Stupid human Stiles, too weak to resist.

Stupid, wanton, deprived libido taking over his brain. He’d get that wench for this.

A loud snort from his right drew Stiles’ attention away from plotting his revenge. Malia’s sleeping body was draped over the reclining chair that she had sandwiched between his bed and the window. Her mouth hung wide open, a touch of drool in danger of dribbling from the corner. Her hair was a mess (what else was new), and she was twitching as she dreamt.

What a cutie. Dark night sky dominated the window above her head. He must have been here for several hours, if not longer. She didn’t have to stay; that chair did _not_ look comfortable. Stiles reached over, but hesitated. Waking a sleeping Malia was about as safe as prodding a sleeping tiger. Learning that lesson had been painful, quite literally.

“Malia,” Stiles whispered gently, trying his best not to spook her. “Psst, hey, wake up!” But the girl snored on. She’d always been a heavy sleeper.

Stiles pulled his hand back. There was no reason to wake her really. Plus he didn’t want to get pinned to the floor again. He stretched his limbs and then gingerly pushed himself into a sitting position, still being considerate of any possible injuries. He was in this hospital bed for a reason, after all.

And why exactly was he in here? As far as he could tell, his body was hale enough. How _long_ had he been here for? And where the _hell_ was that _goddamn_ light-woman so he could kick her irresistible ass?

Stiles let his feet hover for a moment before he plopped them on the tile floor. His door was cracked open, so he slid through it into the hallway. Stiles was no stranger to the hallways of Beacon Hills Memorial, having spent countless nights here with his mother when he was young.

Wandering down the hall, Stiles heard voices around a corner. He found that they belonged to several nurses grouped together around a clipboard.

“Uh, excuse me,” he rasped, approaching them. It seemed his voice was horse from nonuse. None of the nurses turned. Stiles cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, sorry to bother you. I was checked in, uh, actually, I don’t know how long ago it was, but I kind of need my stuff back, you know my cell phone, and…uh…my…” Stiles trailed off, furrowing his brow. The nurses chattered on, not paying him one ounce of attention.

Well, rude. Whatever they’re talking about better be life or death. And it probably was, since, nurses. Stiles floated away, leaving them to their business. He’d go find Melissa.

Stiles wandered the halls, not expressly familiar with this part of the hospital.

Completely by accident, Stiles passed by a room that he had seen before. It was sudden, the realization of where he was, in this particular hallway. It was a long, long time ago, so long that it felt almost like another life. But he was sure this was the place. It was deserted, just like last time. Seemingly it was a part of the hospital that was shut down, rarely used except to stage violent fights like the one he was involved in the last time he was here.

There was the wall that Peter had pinned him up against, and the deserted nurse’s desk over which he launched Derek. That was bad. There was broken glass littering the tiles. It may have been the first time Stiles was actually afraid for the werewolf’s wellbeing, him being all muscles and glowers and intimidating rhetoric. Stiles had almost thought he was indestructible until that night, when he experienced that snap realization that, oh shit, Peter was the alpha and was whipping Derek around like a ragdoll.

Stiles trailed his fingers over the stark white desk, barely touching it. Derek had bashed Stiles’ face against a steering wheel that night, but he also came charging in to save his life.

And didn’t that sum up their entire relationship in a nutshell?

Maybe that was the first night Stiles had realized that he would be disappointed if Peter beat Derek. Devastated even.

A woman’s voice broke him out of his memories. The voice was shrill and weeping, sending unpleasant thoughts pulsing through Stiles’ brain. He jogged to meet it.

Unfortunately, Stiles’ unpleasant thoughts were spot on. The woman was crying, bending at the waist and fisting her hands in her hair. Silent sobs wracked her as a doctor patted her on the back. Stiles had to look away.

He looked back when he noticed the doctor walking in his direction, head bowed in sympathy. Giving bad news was probably no more pleasant than receiving it.

“Hi, excuse me.” Stiles skipped to keep up with the doctor. “Uh, I’m sorry, if this is a bad time, but I can’t seem to find anyone to ask…” Stiles matched the doctor’s footfalls, keeping pace with him. The Doc ripped his hairnet off and tossed it into a trashcan nearby. “I just need to call my dad so he can come get me. Is there any way you could get a nurse, or maybe page Melissa McCall? She’s my best friend’s mom, she…” Stiles let his voice trail off. The doctor didn’t seem to be in the mood to help him. He wasn’t responding to anything Stiles was saying.

In fact, the man didn’t even look at him. Not once.

That’s when the panic flared in Stiles’ gut. He swallowed around his suddenly dry throat. Something was wrong here.

He stopped in his tracks as the doctor disappeared through a set of two-way doors that Stiles was sure he was not allowed to continue through.

Glancing down the hallway, Stiles saw another group of people, none of them hospital employees if their garb was any indication, and jogged towards them. “Hey, can any of you help me?” Stiles called. No one answered. No one even glanced away from their conversations.

“Hey! Hello? I need help!” He made his voice perfectly clear so that it rang out through the hall.

Nothing. Not even a scowl in his direction.

Shit, this was not good.

Frantically finding his way towards the entrance of the ER, Stiles tried to keep it together. His heart hammered against his ribs and a cold sweat bloomed on his temples. He rounded the corner at a sprint and stopped dead in his tracks.

Someone was bellowing at the nurse behind the front desk of the ER. His usually mahogany colored face was flushed pink and he was out of breath, as if he had just run a 5k. Stiles knew that, although he used to be an asthmatic, this man’s lung capacity was now better than any humans. It took a lot to take Scott’s breath away.

“Mom, where is he?” Scott pleaded to Melissa.

“Honey, calm down, I can take you to him right now, but…” Ms. McCall shook her head, putting her hand on her son’s arm.

“Take me!”

“Scott, listen to me. I just-” She cut off.

“What, mom!”

“He looks bad. I just want you to be prepared.”

Who were they talking about, who the _hell_ were they talking about? Who looked bad, because it couldn’t be what Stiles was thinking, okay, there was no way.

Scott turned toward him, and he looked more terrified than Stiles had seen him in a long time. It was then that Stiles knew, as suddenly and fully as that day in this very hospital when he found out that Peter was the alpha. He knew because Scott didn’t look at him, not directly.

He looked right through him.

Stiles silently followed Scott and Melissa through the labyrinth of hospital hallways to Stiles’ room, dreading what he would see there.

He dreaded it, but he wasn’t surprised by it. Scott banged open the door, startling Malia into a growling crouch. And there, between the two of them, lay Stiles’ own unmoving body.

-

“Holy shit, I’m a ghost. I’m a _ghost_. I didn’t even think this dimension existed.” Stiles paced at the foot of his own hospital bed, chewing his ghostly fingernails.

“You should have seen him when I found him. He was white as a ghost.”

“Really, Malia? That’s the metaphor you’re going with right now?” Stiles flailed at her.

“How did you resist it?” Scott asked. He was standing a few feet from the bed, closer to the door than to Stiles himself. Well, his body anyway. “How did you resist the light?”

Malia looked up from stroking Stiles’ forehead. “I saw her sucking the life out of my best friend. It wasn’t difficult.”

Scott nodded, and the two of them fell silent. Well, the three of them. Four of them?

But Stiles was watching his best friend. He seemed quite uncomfortable, with his arms across his chest and his body tensed like someone was about to fight him. He furrowed his brow and scrunched his nose to sniffle, turning away from Stiles’ bed.

“What’s up with you, Scott?” Stiles asked the air, inching closer to his friend. Stiles squinted at his profile. “Feeling guilty?”

“Where’s Kira?” Malia broke the silence. Stiles turned back to her. Her fingers were tracing rhythmic patterns over his knuckles as she eyed the intravenous needle with distaste.

“She’s with the sheriff. They should be here any minute.” Scott glanced back to the bed. “He’s going to lose it when he sees Stiles like this.”

“You got here before them?”

Scott nodded. “I ran.”

“You should have been there, Scott. You shouldn’t have let him walk out like that when you knew that thing was out there.” Malia clenched her jaw and ran her hands through Stiles’ hair.

Stiles shook his head, biting his lip. “Alright, maybe that’s a little harsh. We shouldn’t go blaming him yet for-”

“I know,” Scott whispered. “I made a mistake. I made a lot of them.”

“Will you guys stop blaming…wait, what?” Stiles raised his eyebrows. “What does that mean, Scott?”

And of course, Stiles got no answer. He may as well have been talking to the blank white wall.

“We’ve all made mistakes.” Malia said, eyeing Stiles. “I didn’t tell him how good his cooking became. I also didn’t tell him he sucked at cooking freshman year.”

“Hey!”

“Yeah,” Scott chuckled. “Remember that homemade pizza fiasco?”

“Remember?” Malia scoffed. “I was the one who had to eat everyone else’s slices off their plates while his back was turned.” Malia’s nose twitched. “And the only reason I was able to hold it down was because I ate animal carcass for half my life.”

“You never told me that,” Stiles grinned. “I wouldn’t have been mad if you didn’t-”

“And you know he would have been mad if we didn’t eat it.” Malia said. Stiles blew a long breath out his nose.

Scott nodded at the fond memory. “Maybe he can try again when he gets over this.”

“Psht, like I’m ever cooking for you again. Can’t trust you guys to be honest about anything!” He turned to Malia. “What about the rest of the stuff I’ve made? That birthday cake you loved so much?” Stiles held both hands out to Malia in a pleading gesture. “Come on, I tried that, it was freakin’ delicious. And you can’t tell me you were faking those noises over the noodle soup the other night.” Stiles turned back to Scott for support.

But Scott was looking at Other Stiles, not listening to Ghost!Stiles at all. Not hearing him. Stiles huffed. He was in for some difficult communication times.

“He’ll get over this, right?” Scott didn’t look away from his friend’s face.

“Maybe. Won’t know until he wakes up.”

Scott nodded, looking like he accepted Malia’s words but grudgingly. Stiles felt a little nauseated. Listening to his own two closest friends contemplate his eternal repose was not as much fun as it sounded. He took a walk to clear his head.

Taking several deep breaths, Stiles let his feet carry him without direction. He ventured deeper into the hospital away from the cacophony of voices and pages over the loud speaker. Was this real, or was this some fucked up dream he was having? People say that you should pinch yourself to tell, but Stiles counted his fingers instead. One…two…three….

Ten. No more, no less. Seemed real enough, unfortunately. Stiles curled his fists until his blunt nails dug deep into his palms. He was an actual ghost.

He was still walking, pacing, but stopped short when he looked up. Stiles had passed a mirror and reflexively glanced over at it. He did a double take, though, because there was _nothing freaking there_. Slowly and with disbelief, Stiles took step after step towards the mirror, but nothing appeared. He saw the reflections of doctors bustling around behind him, scanning clipboards and assigning tasks to nurses. A woman in scrubs pulled on an alarmingly long pair of gloves, and oh my god, Stiles did not want to know what those were used for.

But he couldn’t see his face. He had no reflection. Nothing.

Then a sudden flashback to Jennifer Blake forced itself into Stiles’ brain. Derek had told him about what happened in that elevator between them. She’d warned him that one’s name is very closely tied to one’s identity.

So is a person’s face.

-

Waiting to have a fight was often the worst part. Sometimes someone makes a decision that they are sure about, that they know in their bones is the right thing, but that someone else will fight as strongly and fiercely as a bull attempting to buck off its rider. And Stiles knew that moving out was the right thing to do. It was best for him, for his future. For his education. For his life as an adult.

But when he brought it up to his dad, he was ready to fight him on it tooth and nail. His father still thought he was a child, and wouldn’t let Stiles be his own person. Not that Stiles needed his father’s permission. He’d been living his own life independent of his father for far longer than he’d wished. He had been risking his precious ass for his town and for his friends – very much like his father did in his own line of work – since he was barely an adult.

But, as he’d learned, things were easier when his dad was in the loop. Things were far less complicated when he had his father’s blessing. That’s why he couldn’t just pack up his things and leave without first convincing his dad to be on board with it.

As he anxiously waited for his father’s return home, Stiles paced the kitchen, his long, hyper fingers tapping along any surface they encountered. The house was still and deserted but blood rushed in Stiles’ ears. How would his father take it when Stiles insisted that he was moving out? Would he yell again? Stiles found it difficult to form cognitive arguments when his father yelled.

Glancing at the clock, Stiles knew that his dad wouldn’t be out from the station for another hour or so. Waiting was liable to drive him to insanity. He popped open the fridge. There were enough vegetables to fashion some kind of stir-fry.

It was only after he chopped up a few fresh carrots, some celery, onions and chicken that Stiles felt like the methodic movements had relieved some of his nerves. He spread some olive oil into a large wok on the stove, added the vegetable medley, and checked his phone. He tried not to dwell on the fact that Derek still hadn’t contacted him after ditching him early that morning without a word.

He had more pressing issues to worry about.

Before the vegetables were finished simmering, Stiles jumped at an obnoxious tapping on his back door. Scott’s crooked smile greeted him from behind the glass. Stiles clicked the lock.

“Where’d you go last night!” Scott hopped up and down in his excitement. “We finally got Liam to admit that him and Hayden are _totally_ doing it!”

“He didn’t have to admit it. It was blaringly obvious.”

Scott laughed openly, nodding his agreement. “So where were you? After what happened with your dad I thought you’d be drinking the night away.”

“Yeah, sorry I just got caught up.”

“Caught up…with someone?” Scott waggled his eyebrows.

“If you can call falling asleep to reruns of _Friends_ being _with_ someone.”

Scott smiled knowingly. “Hey, was Derek here?”

Stiles turned toward the stove to hide the flush that he felt creeping up his face. “Derek? No, nope. Haven’t seen him. Why? Have you heard from him?”

Smooth, Stiles. Real smooth.

“No, I just thought it kind of smelled like him in here for a second.”

“Yeah, well, he uh. He left his jacket here so.” Stiles lied, gesturing to the pullover hoodie that was draped over one of his kitchen chairs. He had grabbed it from Derek’s apartment that morning. It was cold when the sun had barely risen.

“So he hasn’t, like, called you or anything.” Stiles cleared his throat. Scott raised an eyebrow. “I just haven’t seen his gloom suck the light out of my life like a black hole in a while so I didn’t know if there was some werewolfy business that I should be aware of.” Stiles waved his arms at Scott like he should have known exactly what he was talking about duhhhh Scott stop squinting like that like I’m hiding something oh my god he knows he totally knows what Derek and I did and he’s going to hate me and never let me live it down-

“No, haven’t spoken to him,” Scott said. “Smells good.” Scott followed his nose to the stove.

Stiles blew out a long breath and cleared his throat. “Yeah, trying to calm my nerves so I’ll be mentally sound enough to convince my dad that moving out at barely eighteen isn’t the end of the freaking world.”

“He’ll come around.”

Stiles shook his head and wrung his hands. “It’s like he wants me to stay here forever, in the same room I was born in, in the same house where I’ve lived since I was a kid. He still sees me that way, like he has to protect me.”

“He’s your dad. That’s what dads are supposed to do. Be there to make sure nothing bad happens to their kid.”

Scott didn’t have to say ‘unlike my dad’ for Stiles to know exactly what he meant. “Yeah, you’re right.” He conceded. “What did your mom say when you told her?”

Scott shrugged and crossed over to the refrigerator. He plucked a bag of grapes from the shelf. “She said she was fine with it. She also broke out a binder-sized photo album of my baby pictures and made me stare at them with her for a half hour.”

“So sorry I missed that,” Stiles grinned, snatching the grapes away from his friend. “Good thing Kira wasn’t there.”

“She wasn’t…until my mom called her.” Scott groaned. “The two of them shouldn’t be allowed to get together. Ever. They gushed over one picture for ten minutes.”

“Tell me it was the one of you bathing in the sink with your little butt popping out.”

“Dude! It’s not cool that you know that exists!”

Stiles chuckled, tossing a grape for his friend to catch in his mouth. He checked his phone absentmindedly again.

“Waiting for a call?” Scott asked innocently.

Call, text, email…Stiles would settle for a freaking Facebook friend request at this point. “No, just checking the time.” Stiles chucked another grape over his shoulder, knowing Scott would catch it eagerly.

“Uh, Stiles?”

“Mm?”

“Your dad’s home.” Scott said it somberly, like he was telling Stiles he failed a test or that his hamster died.

Stiles looked towards his front door with a crease in his brow. His dad was home early. Stiles tried to puff out a deep breath but it somehow only made his heart beat even more quickly. He was suddenly super aware of his body. Shit, what should he do with his hands?

“I’ll talk to you later.” Scott patted his friend on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

Scott slipped out the back door just as Stiles heard his dad walk through the front. He turned back to the stove and unnecessarily stoked the vegetables. With his back still turned, he heard his dad’s belt and badge clank onto the kitchen table. He felt the tension viscerally gripping his chest.

Neither of them said anything for a while. His dad opened a cabinet near to Stiles’ head, took out a glass, filled it with water and took several deliberate gulps. Stiles moved around him without making eye contact to rinse the cutting board and the knife. He felt his dad glowering at the back of his head.

Finally, he coaxed himself to turn towards his dad. “Look, dad, I really think we should talk more about this moving out thing. Scott and I are going to look for a place together near Beacon Hills Community College and we’ll be able to take care of each other. It’ll be good for both of us. We can find somewhere affordable, I’ll call you everyday, we are both _perfectly capable_ of being responsible and you should know that by now because I’ve proven that my decision making skills are like _awesome_ and you need to trust that you’ve raised me right up until this point which you totally have and-”

And Stiles was choked into a backbreaking hug. “I know, son. I know.”

“Uh..wh…hmph.” Stiles stuttered, taken aback. Eventually he deflated and returned his father’s affection.

-

Malia stayed with Stiles almost as much as his father stayed. His dad, obviously, left his bedside only when work was inevitable. Plus, Stiles gathered that he himself had only been in the hospital for about an hour or so before he’d become conscious again. Or conscious period. Woken up? Became a revenant?

Proper ghost lingo was difficult to master.

In fact, existing as a ghost at all was difficult to get used to. It took him an entire day (where he still didn’t wake up) to play around with his abilities and restrictions and figure things out. He found out that most ghostly clichés were true. He could, indeed, pass through solid objects, although he tried to avoid it whenever possible. It was weird. Why he didn’t pass right through the floor underneath him and land in the basement or the Earth’s molten center or fall straight through to China, Stiles wasn’t exactly sure. He was glad for it anyway.

He tried several times to pick up a pen. Figured it would be wicked to write I SEE DEAD PEOPLE on a hospital pad and scare the crap out of Scott. Maybe tell him to help Stiles out of the twilight zone while he was at it. That was a frustrating five hours that led nowhere.

People came to visit him a lot the first couple of days. It was a nice gesture but mostly it became frustrating. After a while, Stiles left the room whenever someone new came to see him. It wasn’t worth witnessing the pained looks that twisted their features when they saw all those tubes and the machine breathing for him.

It was nice to see Danny, though. He stayed for that visit.

And then there was a visitor that Stiles never thought would show up to Beacon Hills again. None other than Jackson Whittemore, who gave him a nonchalant, “Sup, Stilinski,” before Scott practically tackled him in a hug. Jackson _laughed_ , of all things, and embraced him right back. They talked about London for a while and Stiles could have sworn he saw Jackson sneak a tender squeeze of Stiles hand before he left the room.

-

It had been more than 48 hours since Stiles had been attacked. He wondered if it was a bad thing that he hadn’t yet awoken, if it was like a missing child. After the first 48 hours, it was unlikely that the child would ever be found. But this was Beacon Hills. Crazier things have happened.

-

“I called everyone. Every contact I have,” Scott poured over his laptop. Actually, that was Stiles’ laptop and hey, invasion of privacy. He should never have given Scott his password. The direct light didn’t do much to hide the bags under Scott’s eyes. “It’s going to take time. But everyone I know is searching for a way to help him.”

Each one of his pack were huddled around his hospital bed. They fell silent, engulfed in books and papers and computers. Time was an odd concept for a ghost, but Stiles guessed that it was late at night. They should probably be studying for their classes…

“Maybe it’s some kind of firefly creature.”

“Could be.”

“It didn’t feel anything like a firefly.” Malia shot.

“Bioluminescence – the product and emission of light by a living organism. Occurs widely in marine vertebrates and invertebrates, as in some fungi…oh, probably not then.”

Stiles bit his nails, floating from one of his friends to another, reading over their shoulders. He was trying just as hard as them to figure out _what the hell that light thing was_ and why she wanted to attack Malia and Stiles.

“Sup, nerds.” Jackson waggled his eyebrows as he sauntered in through the door.

Oh yeah. Jackson was hanging around lately.

“Got some books from the library.” He dropped a few ratty old books on the bed near Other Stiles’ feet. No one had really touched him at all since he’d been in that bed, with the exception of Malia. Jackson didn’t seem to care about that. The bed squeaked and sunk when he perched next to the books.

Kira and Scott exchanged a wary glance as Malia’s upper lip curled up over her teeth. Jackson quelled her by throwing her a turkey sandwich from the cafeteria.

“Any progress?”

“Not really…” Scott hesitated. “There’s a Celtic myth that deals with a woman of the sun. Áine, a fairy or fairy queen…at one time may have been viewed as a Goddess…”

“Is there a photo?” Malia closed her book with a thud and leaned close to Scott.

“There’s a drawing.”

Stiles scanned the painting over Scott’s other shoulder. The woman was surrounded by greenery and was paying obeisance to the sun.

“It’s not her,” Stiles mumbled, his finger in his mouth.

“Not her.” Malia echoed. She plopped back down on the radiator by the window and pouted like someone had just stolen all of her Halloween candy.

“Why don’t you try Deaton again?” Kira’s eyes jumped to Scott.

“He’s in the mountains, he doesn’t have cell service.” Scott fiddled with his phone anyway. It was _seriously_ bad timing that the Doc was out of town this month.

“This is pointless!” Malia threw her book and it slammed like a gunshot. “We should be out there looking for it! We’re getting nowhere here.”

“After it attacked you once already? No way.” Stiles rolled his eyes.

“We’ll find something,” Kira offered, cautiously placing a hand on Malia’s forearm. “We will.”

“She’s called a Flaze.”

Everyone’s eyes – including Stiles’ – shot towards the door. Chris Argent stood regally in the doorway, his shoulders spanning the entire frame. Scott’s eyebrows shot up as he said, “Mr. Argent?” with shock and awe and a little bit of hope in his voice. “What are you doing here? I thought you were retired.”

“Semi-retried,” Chris grinned. He then handed Scott an ancient-looking leather bound book. The bestiary.

“What’s a Flaze.” Malia asked, skeptical.

“She’s also known as the Maiden of Desire.” Chris motioned for Scott to open the book and guided him to the page that was dog-eared. “There’s an entire Irish legend behind her, but I’ll give you the cliff notes. Centuries ago, in Ireland, she was a peasant girl who was raped and later murdered by a highborn man and his brothers and father. Now she utilizes desire to lure people to their deaths.”

“Let me see,” Malia pushed past Scott.

“But she went after Malia first,” Kira mentioned. “Wouldn’t she only want to kill men?”

“Legend has it that the wives of several of the men were either present at the time of the assault or helped to cover it up after. She’s vengeful towards either gender.”

“Lovely.” Stiles bobbed his head. “So how do we kill it.”

“It says in the book that she only targets families or significant others. Basically people who share DNA.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose.

Scott cocked his head. “Malia and Stiles aren’t related.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Whatever, not important, this is an ancient legend, maybe she’s branching out. How do we _kill it_?”

“It also says she can be summoned.” Scott read. “ ‘If a victim wishes to exact revenge, he or she may acquire the perpetrators DNA and call upon the Flaze to do him or her justice.’ ”

Kira looked slightly outraged. “So…Stiles _raped someone_?”

Stiles was glad he was unconscious for that one.

“He didn’t rape anyone.” Malia looked at Kira like she was a particularly sour lemon.

“Stilinski has a talent for pissing people off, but enough for someone to conjure an ancient Celtic hatetress?” Jackson shook his head. “I doubt it.”

Stiles bit his lip. “So then who the hell summoned her?”

"I'm afraid these are questions I can't answer." Argent stated.

"Um, here's a question," Stiles nudged. " _How do we kill it._ ” 

"How do we kill it?" Malia asked.

Thank God. Stiles owed Malia a great meal when he woke up

"Well, I've never put this theory into practice myself, having never come across a Flaze before, but according to legend she dies like a human. It's finding her that's proved to be the hardship. She only appears when she's searching for her prey."

Everyone's eye's traveled to Malia. She tuned her body in a slight defensive posture.

"It's fine. We'll figure out another way." Scott said. He flashed his alpha red eyes at Malia. She unclenched.

"I'm sure you will. I hope this was help enough.” Chris looked over each of them, landing on Scott. “Keep the book, and let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.”

Chris put a reassuring hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Argent,” Scott said in earnest.

Chris nodded, and that was the end of that.

“I don’t get it.” Malia wrinkled her nose. “Who would want revenge on Stiles?”

“He’s got a smart mouth. Maybe he pissed off the wrong person.” Jackson shook his head. “Scott, can I talk to you for a second?”

Stiles threw a sidelong glance at Jackson. “About what?” He asked the air. Jackson led Scott into the hallway and closed the door. Stiles was able to slip out before it clicked shut.

“What’s up?” Scott asked.

“There’s something you should know." Jackson looked uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than Stiles had guessed Jackson Whittemore had the propensity to look. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Peter’s back.” Jackson said

How did Jackson know that?

“I know,” Scott inclined his head.

How did _Scott_ know that!? “You _know_?” Stiles looked incredulous.

“You do?”

Scott heaved a deep, heavy sigh and nodded like he had the world on his shoulders. “Mmm. He approached me after lacrosse practice one day. Actually, I think Stiles knew, too.” Scott shifted on his feet, glancing back at Other Stiles through the glass pane. His eyes became tight. “Peter said it was proper etiquette to alert the Alpha of the territory that there was a new werewolf around.” Scott’s eyes were somber. “He seemed different. Mellow, I guess. You think there’s a connection?”

“Of course there’s a connection!” Stiles flailed.

Jackson shook his head. “I don’t know. But I know how to find out.”

-

On day number four, Stiles found himself alone with his other self in the hospital room. Clearly this was unacceptable. The Sheriff, after much coaxing, a little yelling, and an actual physical push from Melissa (brave woman), had been convinced to spend the previous night at home. Stiles took to cursing his friends and shadowing Melissa McCall at these unforgivable times. After seeing her assist two surgeries, administer epinephrine to a patient in anaphylactic shock, and lose an unfortunate old man to a heart attack, he developed an intense newfound respect for this incredible woman.

Mercifully, Scott came straight from class that day to sit with Stiles. After delivering a bag lunch to his mother (“Really Scott? You couldn’t even cut the crusts off her sandwich for her?”), Scott carefully opened the door to Stiles’ room.

When Scott pushed open the door, he fully expected the room to be empty.

It wasn’t.

Scott faced a back with broad shoulders and dark hair. The thick chords of his neck were exposed as his head tilted down to stare at Stiles. His leather jacket strained as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Derek?” Scott said hesitantly.

The man spared a small glance behind him. “Did Melissa convince the Sheriff to go home?” He murmured, turning back.

“Uh, yeah. He wasn’t happy about it, but…. What are you doing here?”

“I needed to see if it was true.”

“Derek...where have you been?”

No response. Instead, Derek surveyed the whirring and beeping monitors and the various tubes weaving in and out of Stiles’ body, his mouth, his nose. His eyes snagged on the dark purple bruising that was still juxtaposed against the pale skin of Stiles’ neck. Scott inched closer to him, tipping his head so that he could see Derek’s face. He looked…different. Older. More haggard. If Scott was being honest with himself, Derek looked…

Wrecked.

“Derek. What are you doing here?”

His question earned him barely a glance. It was like Derek was afraid that if his eyes left Stiles for too long, they wouldn’t be able to find him again.

“I didn’t,” he shook his head minutely. “I never got the chance to…."

And then it clicked in Scott’s head. So much clicked. From Stiles never dating, to Derek’s random disappearance, to why Stiles smelled faintly of Derek after graduation. To why the Flaze went after both Malia _and_ Stiles. It went after families. People who were bonded. People who shared DNA.

Scott saw the common denominator. Derek. Stiles and Malia aren’t related, but Derek and Malia are.

Scott closed a firm hand over Derek’s shoulder. “You will,” he promised. “Look, I’ll give you guys...I mean, I’ll just….”

When Derek didn’t say anything, Scott slipped out the door.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Stiles demanded, his ethereal voice vibrating without his control. “What the _hell_ are you _doing_ here? Leave, Derek. I don’t want you here. Don’t touch me!” If Stiles had the ability to slam his hand down against something solid, he would have.

Derek had reached out a hand to hover over Stiles’ still fingers on the bed, but hesitated. He clenched his fist instead.

“Look buddy, I don’t know who you think you are, coming back here after who knows how long-”

“I can’t believe it’s been an entire year,” Derek murmured.

Stiles huffed. “Fine, a year then. I’ve moved on, okay, I have a life and nowhere in said life is there a place for you! You had your chance and you were too chicken shit to take it.”

Derek, of course hearing none of this, composed himself and left the room.

Stiles was hot on his heels. “Seriously, Derek? You came all the way here to cry at my sickbed for all of _two minutes_? That’s all I was worth to you, two minutes? It’s not like I saved your freaking life several times before I had even graduated high school. It’s not like you owe me or anything, right? It’s not like I depended on you. It’s fine, just LEAVE!”

Derek didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he navigated the hallways. He didn’t need to – people generally gave him the right of way out of instinct. Stiles was the only one brave enough to keep pace with him, facing him as he ranted.

“There was no reason for you to be here, none at all. Everyone’s doing perfectly fine without you, Derek, so why don’t you just go back to that hole that you crawled into after you FLED THE COUNTRY the week that we slept together! Don’t think for a second that I waited for you, because I didn’t! I FORGOT YOU the SECOND you left!” Stiles didn’t feel the tears on his cheeks or the lump in his throat until after Derek walked right out of the hospital. “I didn’t love you Derek. I didn’t! I didn’t.” He called to his back. Stiles fisted his hands in his hair, feeling like a child throwing a tantrum. He couldn’t follow Derek into the bright daylight and it wasn’t fair. He wasn’t finished, but he was confined to the hospital.

Bending at the waist, Stiles tried to take several deep breaths that took no purchase in his lungs. Squinting his eyes and grinding his teeth, his frustration grew so hot that he swiped at a cup of pens that rested on the desk of the nurse’s station.

It didn’t move an inch. He couldn’t take the frustration anymore. He ran. Without a direction, without a purpose, without a thought about who or what he was passing through. He ran up the stairs and along the corridors that were populated and along the ones that were deserted. He ran without seeing because the tears in his eyes flooded his vision. He saw a door and ran toward it and found himself on the roof.

Where he screamed his frustration to the sky until his lungs were raw.

-

“This isn’t fair,” he told the darkened sky with a raspy, scratchy voice. Several hours had seen him bellowing and sobbing and unable to catch his breath, but had landed him lying on his back talking to the stars. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to put my dad through this.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to be stuck in this hospital. I need a way to get out of this.”

He heaved a shaky breath. Who was he talking to anyway? No one could hear him, and he was well aware of that. He closed his eyes and questioned his own mental sanity.

“Stiles?”

Stiles shot upright. What the hell was that? He whirled around, but there was no one else on the roof.

Wow. His mental sanity was all he had left, and now that was leaving him too. He must be hearing things or going crazy.

“Stiles?”

Holy shit, there it was again. He definitely heard it this time, clear as the night sky above him. Where was that coming from? That voice…. No. It was impossible.

It rang out again. “Stiles!” Closer this time. But he hadn’t heard that voice for years. It couldn’t be. She sounded far away, like she was calling him through a tunnel.

Stiles kept turning around and around, trying to locate the voice, the _person_ calling out his name. His heart raced, and he could hear it pounding in his ears.

“Where are you?” He called hesitantly, his voice hoarse. No answer. “Where are you, I n-need. I need your help.”

He looked around, waiting to hear the voice again. If he could listen hard enough, if he could just hear it again, he could follow it, chase it, trace where it was coming from. He could find her. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited, listening as hard as he could, trying to ignore the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

“Stiles! I’m here.” She said clearly.

His eyes popped open and he saw her, standing clearly and physically a few paces in front of him.

_Allison._

“I’m here. _How_ am I here?” Her eyes darted around the roof. She held her hands delicately at her hips, palms down, as if she were keeping her balance.

Stiles swallowed around his bone-dry throat. He couldn’t speak. _Allison was standing right in front of him._

She turned around several times, her hair slightly billowing with the breeze.

“Where are we?”

“Roof of the hospital,” Stiles rasped.

“How?” Her brown eyes sparkled in disbelief.

“Uh, I don’t really know. I can’t quite believe this is real. I can’t believe you’re here.” Stiles took a steadying breath. “I don’t even know if I’m really here.” He added as an afterthought.

“Seems like you are.”

“Things haven’t been what they seem lately.”

“What do you mean?”

Holy shit, Stiles did not have the energy for this. He silently lead her down several flights of stairs to his room.

It was one of the rare times that the room was empty. She looked confused at first, but then Allison’s eyes leapt over Stiles’ shoulder, to Other Him lying on the bed. “Oh,” she breathed, understanding dawning on her face. “You’re…oh.” Stiles watched her as she glided closer to the other him. She shook her head, long dark waves of hair following the motion over her back. Her voice was sad as she stared down at him. “What happened to you?”

“I’m not sure yet, exactly.” Stiles wound his fingers together.

“Sounds like there’s a lot you don’t know.” She was just as direct as ever. “It doesn’t really matter though, does it?” Allison’s voice was soft. Pensive. “This was bound to happen, eventually. We were playing fate, trying to stay with them.”

“ _It_ hasn’t happened to me yet.” Stiles defied her. “Look, I’m still alive, alright? And I’m not just going to give up, I’m gonna do something to save myself _and_ the pack.” And if Peter Hale was involved then he’d better act fast. “I don’t know how yet, but I’m…working on it.”

“Working on it how?” Allison turned back to him, her brow furrowed. “You’re lying in a hospital bed, _dying_ by the looks of it-”

“Fighting. Not dying. Not yet. There are things I have to take care of.”

“Like what?”

“Like saving them! Like making sure Scott doesn’t mess things up with Kira and graduates college, like making sure Hayden doesn’t murder Liam before she realizes that she’s in love with him. Like making sure Malia passes her classes and gets her degree. Stop my dad from eating himself into an early grave. Like making sure Peter freaking Hale doesn’t _kill them all_ with his lust for power, like-”

“Okay, I get it, Stiles, I get it.” Allison raised her hands in surrender. Stiles puffed out an angry breath, looking towards the window. Slowly, she took a measured step toward him. “These things aren’t always your responsibility. You don’t have to save everyone. All of that, it sounds like so much pressure! But, wouldn’t it be easier to just…let it all go? Look at you, Stiles, you’re halfway there already.” She waved a hand to his increasingly frail body lying on the bed. “They’ll all get by, I promise they will. Life will go on here without you. It did without me.”

Stiles glared down at Other Him. It was an action he had tried to avoid, as it scared the hell out of him, seeing all those tubes and all that machinery weaving in and out of him, keeping him alive. Breathing for him. His gaunt face became less flushed and greyer with each passing day. Was Allison right? Should he just let it all go? It would be peaceful, so quiet, and he could rest. Lately he’s been feeling like he would never catch up on enough sleep. He took a deep breath. It was tempting, so tempting to yield to such peace….

Scott tumbled through the door of his room then, calling over his shoulder, “I know mom, I’ll make sure.” Behind him trailed Kira, her fingers intertwined with Scott’s.

“Bye Miss McCall!” Kira called, lifting her hand in a wave even though Scott was already closing the door. She gripped Scott’s forearms with a wicked gleam in her eye.

Scott scowled at her. “You and my mom should not be allowed to hang out together.” Stiles winced as Scott grabbed her hand and pulled her in towards him. He chanced a hesitant glance at Allison.

And sure enough, she ghosted forward, past Stiles, to get a closer look at the pair.

“But we have such a good time talking about how _adorable_ you are.” Kira looked up at Scott earnestly.

“Exactly my point.” He placed an affectionate kiss on her pursed lips.

Then his eyes traveled to Other Stiles on the bed. His grin faltered.

Kira, observant as she was, didn’t miss his face droop. “You know, we could try talking to him. Reading to him. Anything really. It might help.”

“He can’t hear us.” Scott said skeptically.

“Maybe he can?” Kira shrugged one shoulder and hugged her book bag to her chest, like she was protecting herself with it. “There’s a Buddist legend called Bardo. It literally means in between state. There are different progressive stages where you can be visited by peaceful or wrathful deities. But, basically it’s the state, like a twilight zone, between life and death!” She piqued. Then, realizing what she said, her smile vanished. “Oh, no, I- Scott, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.” And Stiles knew she was. He was no stranger to putting his foot in his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Scott said in a husky voice. He shook his head, eyes roaming over Stiles’ face for a moment. “So, you’re saying that he can be awake? In some kind of other place?" 

“Not a physical place, no.” Kira sat in one of the chairs at Stiles’ bedside, tucking her bag between her ankles. “It’s more like another dimension, one parallel to ours. But, maybe, if we talk to him, it will…it could help. Ground him.”

“Okay.” Scott tentatively took the chair closest to Stiles. He was clearly uncomfortable, his hands gripping the armrests and his elbows twisted out awkwardly from his body. “Uh, hey S-Stiles.” He glanced back at Kira, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Uh, how’s it going?”

Allison aggressively rolled her eyes, an _are you freaking serious_ and a _you’re unbearably adorable_ expression battling it out on her face.

Kira couldn’t help it; she stifled a giggle.

“What? You told me to talk!” Scott scolded, mortified.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just…talk to him like you would normally talk to him. Like, what would you say to him if he were here right now, if he could hear you.”

Scott shrugged. “Well, I guess…I guess I’d tell him that I missed talking to him.” Kira gestured at Stiles’ body. Scott turned to him. “Uh. I would definitely tell him that he should wake up right now cuz we all just…we need him. And not just me, the whole pack needs him. All of us. Sometimes I say stupid things and Stiles always makes fun of me for it but I don’t even care because that’s how it’s always been and no matter what I say he’ll still be there for me.” Scott grinned. “Malia needs you, too. She’s been ripping a lot of stuff up. Pillows, and a pair of your shoes. And she’s been sleeping in your bed.” They’re all grinning, all four of them. But then Scott’s grin faded as his face grew serious. “And your dad, dude, your dad. I’ve never seen him like this. He keeps talking about Chris Argent. I think it’s because he’s thinking about him, like, subconsciously and it’s not…. It’s depressing.”

Scott paused, head dipped. The air became thick with his emotion. “Derek…” And it’s barely more than a whisper. “Derek has a lot to tell you, Stiles. I think if you go anywhere, he’s not going to be long behind you.”

It’s not until Allison tentatively glances back to him that Stiles has the mind to quickly wipe the tears off his cheeks.

The room stays still and quiet for a long while. Scott is staring at Stiles’ face. Kira has her hand very gingerly placed in Scotts. Allison watches them, and Stiles...

Stiles makes up his mind to never, ever give up fighting for as long as he can. Not ever.

-

“So that’s her, huh? That’s Scott’s new girlfriend.” Allison mused later as they walked through the garden in front of the hospital. The sun hadn’t yet appeared, but the Earth was lit up with it’s promise nonetheless.

“That’s her. She’s actually kind of…” Stiles had the decency not to say ‘perfect for him’. “You’d like her.”

“Maybe,” she whispered to the flowers. “She’s very pretty.”

They walked in companionable silence for a while, each engulfed in their own thoughts.

“Why am I here?” Allison asked eventually.

Stiles stopped short. “Uh, well.” He couldn’t help feeling like she was accusing him. “I’m not sure _how_ you’re here but I can speak to why. I need your help.”

“My help?” Allison’s brows pulled together. “How can I help you?”

“I think you already are,” Stiles replied, sheepish. “I haven’t been able to leave the hospital until today, right now, with you.”

“You were stuck there? What happened if you tired to leave?”

“I never tried. I just knew I couldn’t.”

“How?”

“It’s hard to explain. Kind of like how you know you can’t fly even though most of us don’t go jumping off buildings to test the theory.”

“But you’re outside now. So you can fly.” She shrugged. “What else can’t you do?”

“Move things. Pick things up.”

Allison smiled kindly. “In case you haven’t noticed,” she whispered conspiratorially. “We’re ghosts. You left your physical body back in that hospital bed.”

“So we can’t move things?”

“Not unless you became Patrick Swayze and forgot to tell me about it.”

“Right,” Stiles nodded, slightly embarrassed. He should have known better. “What about communicating with people? Talking to them? Is there any way to send a message?”

Allison grinned knowingly. “Think Patrick Swayze again. How did he do it?”

He thought about it for a moment, and then understanding dawned over his face. Allison dimpled at him as she smiled widely.

“So how do I find her?”

“Maybe you just need to try. Try to fly. Jump off the building.”

Huh. Maybe.

“Thanks, Allison. One more thing…” He hesitated, not wanting to hurt her. “I’m not going anywhere.” Stiles declared. “I have to stay here, at least for now. At least until I don’t have any other choice.”

“I know you do.” Her sad smile broke his heart. The girl was all brown eyes and crinkly laugh lines and she just had a way of breaking people’s hearts. “But you should also know that I can’t stay much longer.”

So he stopped and she stopped and he faced her, because how often did people get the opportunity to tell the one’s they lost all the things that they never got to say to them before they lost them. 

She stared at him like she knew exactly what was coming and wasn’t ready to hear it. He said it anyway.

“Allison, you know we just. We all miss the _crap_ out of you.” She giggled through the tears welling up in her eyes. “Seriously, all of us, and none of us are the same since you’ve been gone. Every single one of us would change that night if we could. You have to know that. And you should also know that Kira and Scott, they’re good for each other and they make sense together, but you were his soul mate. I would know, as the best friend that had to sit through all of the stages of his bro falling in love. And yeah, you’re right. Life is going on here without you. But it is, and always will be, missing someone. Missing you. Don’t think for a second we’ve forgotten about you. We never will. Scott never will. I never, ever will.”

Stiles wouldn’t have changed a word of that even if he knew they would both be openly crying like babies at the end of it. They were standing amidst the flowers and the tall grass and the sunrise and giggling and crying like idiots and it’s a good thing no one could see them because they were not a pretty sight.

Eventually, after several minutes of trying to stem the flow, they both calmed down. “Thanks, Stiles,” was all Allison managed.

Then Stiles wrapped his arms around her. She felt ephemeral; sort of like she was made of clouds or light around the edges and he couldn’t quite reach the solid part of her. He closed his eyes and breathed her in and held on to her for a long, long time.

When he finally pulled away, she was gone.

-

“Why do these asshole keep leaving me alone?” Stiles huffed, frustrated. He had landed back in his hospital room after Allison disappeared. He was not left unattended often, but it hit really hard when he was. It was the silence in particular. But there wasn’t silence, exactly. It was the beeping of his heart monitor that really drove him crazy. It was reminiscent of the torturous constant of a faucet drip. Bloop…bloop…bloop…. Beep…beep…beep… 

The small creak of the door startled him. The door swung open slowly, lethargically, minutely. Stiles was astonished to see, once again, Derek’s crystal blue eyes and miraculous cheek bones grace his hospital room with their unfair beauty. Deft hands closed the door without a creak or a click.

“I thought I told you to leave me alone.” Stiles croaked. Derek wasn’t here when it counted, when they were trying to figure out what was wrong with Stiles or researching ways to fix him, and he didn’t want him here at the quiet moments either. He’d rather be alone. “Wait, whoa, what are you doing?” Stiles lunged forward. Derek had bent at the waist and dipped his mouth towards Other Stiles’ neck. For one terrifying moment, Stiles was sure that Derek was going to bite him.

He didn’t. Instead he took a deep breath in through his nose. He lurched back immediately, revolted. As he backed away slowly, Derek’s face became more and more horrified with the sight of Stiles’ body. His back bumped against the door handle. He ripped it open without any of the concern for inconspicuousness that he had exhibited before.

Stiles, perplexed, followed him.

They moved through the halls and down the stairs and passed the patients and doctors and nurses and visitors. Derek’s jaw jumped as he all but stumbled through. Stiles followed him to the entrance of the hospital where there was an agonizing moment where he hesitated, not sure that the freedom of movement Allison promised him earlier would transcend. But he was able to step through the doors and out into the moist, damp air without a hitch. He was grateful; he needed to know what Derek smelled that could possibly have twisted his face in such devastation.

Granted, Stiles hadn’t showered in practically a week, but he was unconscious, so.

Stiles avoided moving through solid objects, but Derek’s passenger seat door wasn’t going to open itself. His knuckles were white as Derek gripped the steering wheel, running red lights and crossing double yellow lines to reach his destination.

Which turned out to be his old loft.

Stiles’ mouth dropped open. “Derek, I can’t go in there.” He peered at the building. The flashbacks of the last time he was here were already making his throat dry. It was a different time when, for a very small moment, Stiles thought Derek and him could be something. Could be functional.

But Derek slammed the door of his Camaro and continued to stomp up the steps, so Stiles had no choice. He trailed him.

Wringing nervous fingers together like a wet rag, he took in the apartment: the couch he had crashed on, the kitchen set Scott and Stiles had purchased themselves and forced on Derek. The spiral stairs him and Derek had tripped up, throwing shirts and pants over the railing in their eagerness to reach Derek’s bed.

Derek’s bed. He prayed to all deities that Derek would not lead him there now.

“Why did you bring me here?” He whispered. He felt weary, tired. “It’s too weird being here. I don’t know if I can stay. It’s too weird.”

“You’re right.”

“I know. Wait, what?”

“I didn’t want to be.”

Oh, shit. Stiles swallowed around the fear that had just clogged up his throat. Not that voice. Not that subtly sarcastic, manipulative, _evil fucking voice._

Stiles turned his head apprehensively to glare behind him.

“But I thought you should know considering everything that you…confided…with me last year.” Peter didn’t work very hard to conceal the smug sneer that quirked his mouth.

Derek snorted. “Confided? You mean when you barged in on him and me.”

That had been fun. Stiles had been right in the middle of getting fingered when Peter hauled the door open and threw his head back laughing at the sight of him leaping behind couch for cover.

“I’d rather think of it as an Uncle-Nephew bonding experience rather than anyone barging in on anyone else.”

“Please!” Stiles spat. “You threw the door open so fast you practically took it off the wall, you son of a-”

“Call it what you want now. It doesn’t change the fact that Stiles is dying.” Derek shrugged out of his leather jacket and placed it over the back of a chair with care. “I could smell it right away.” His brow twitched. “Jackson said he flat lined the other day.”

(“CLEAR!” Melissa McCall had yelled. Malia was screaming. Scott had a tense grip on her arms, holding her back. He looked utterly shocked. Jackson was plastered against the wall in horror. Kira crossed her arms over her chest as if she was holding herself together.

Melissa bent over Other Stiles, whose chest was exposed and whose vitals were crashing. “Again! Clear!” She screeched, and Stiles’ body arched and fell as the paddles were applied. The flat line persisted. She rubbed the paddles together and pushed them to his naked chest. “Clear!”

“Come ON Stiles!” Malia roared, her voice breaking. “Come on!” She struggled harder against Scott’s grip. He clutched her waist. She unabashedly sobbed and kicked.

Melissa yelled “Clear!” one last time. Stiles took a deep breath.

And his heart beat once more.)

“Jackson?” Stiles felt like he’d just been punched in the gut. “ _Jackson_ told you I flat lined _?_ ”

So that’s why Jackson’s been hanging around. So he could report back to Derek. And that’s how he knew Peter was back in town.

“Mmm. Good thing Jackson’s been your eyes and ears. What would you do without such a loyal beta? Of course, you could always grow a pair and be there yourself.”

Derek glared really, really hard. “I’ve been there.” He growled. “I’ve just…been busy.”

“Busy?” Peter scoffed.

“Trying to save Stiles’ life. To get him out of there. He’s dying.”

“And wouldn’t that tear the crime-fighting, mystery-solving gang of Beacon Hills to shreds?” Peter pouted.

Stiles glowered at Peter. He hated, absolutely abhorred, when Peter was right about something. Stiles’ death (as much as he hated contemplating his own mortality) wouldn’t bode well for the pack to stay together. They had lost so many people… how much more could they take?

How much more could Derek take?

“I’m not going to let that happen.” Derek grabbed a backpack from the corner and shoved in a book from the shelf the size of all seven Harry Potter books combined. “I know you have connections.”

“Connections?” Peter’s face faltered for a moment.

“Other packs. Healers. Witches.” He hitched a strap over his broad shoulder. “I don’t give a damn who they are. Connect me.”

Peter was back to fighting a sneer. “Derek. You’re willing to risk contact with other possibly volatile packs, or even debase yourself to the likes of _witches_ , before you’d trust your own Uncle? We’ve discussed this. All you have to do is trust me-”

And suddenly Peter was shoved up against the wall, Derek’s fist clutching the scruff of his V-neck. Peter didn’t cower at Derek’s bared fangs, but Stiles thought it must have taken all of his will power.

“I DON’T trust you! I never will. All I need are your connections.”

“Nephew, you’d do well to put your claws away. As it turns out, I am the _only_ one who can help you. You’ll understand if you accept my offer. And then I’ll help you. I’ll even do it with a smile.” At this, Peter bared fangs deadlier than Derek’s. “But you’ll have to trust me.”

Derek shoved away from Peter, turning his back on him. Stiles watched the silent breakdown of his face as his teeth became blunt again and he fisted his hands in his hair. Trusting Peter with saving someone’s life was about as safe as trusting a fire not to burn down a dry forest.

“Tell me what you know.” Derek’s voice was the calm, but his face betrayed the storm.

“Not for free. You know the cost.”

“I….I can’t give you what you want.” Derek faltered. “Scott’s working on something-”

“Scott has no _idea_ how to help Stiles. I’ll prove that to you. He may think he has everything worked out because he knows the creatures _name_ , but let me assure you once more. _I am the only one that can truly help you_. Just give me what I want.”

Derek glowered at his uncle, and Stiles was suddenly _terrified_.

“Whatever he wants, don’t do it Derek.” Stiles felt nauseous at the thought of Peter getting what he wanted. He didn’t know what it was but it couldn’t be good. He was sweating, trembling at the thought of the consequences. His stomach roiled. 

When Derek did nothing but clench his fists, Peter checked his watch. “11:30…give me your phone. Be quiet and follow my lead. Let’s see what kind of great plan your True Alpha has got.”


	4. History Repeating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's math in this chapter. Math is a thing I do not do so...PEMDAS. Please Excuse Math Discussed in Author's Story.

“Scott? Scott!”

For a moment Stiles didn’t move, utterly frozen with fear. Slowly his eyes adjusted, and he realized he wasn’t surrounded by all blackness. He could see a pocket of light filtering in through a window to his left. It illuminated an unkempt bed strewn with several pairs of dark jeans and a few patterned t-shirts.

He knew those t-shirts, and that backpack…. This was Scott’s room, back in their home. How did he get here? Where were Peter and Derek? Maybe he shouldn’t question how he’d gotten here. He must be in this room for a reason.

Light flooded the room when Scott opened the door. He’d just showered, but there was a towel (thankfully) knotted around his waist, his hair tousled and falling in front of his eyes.

Despite the fact that Stiles knew he couldn’t be seen, he backed himself into an inconspicuous corner. The bedside lamp did little to brighten Stiles’ side of the room. Scott fumbled with his phone before throwing a pair of black boxers on his bed and dropping his towel. Stiles examined a peeling piece of paint on Scott’s wall.

When he looked back, his friend was fully dressed and was picking up odd things off his floor. He checked his phone again, brushed his teeth, tapped his phone one more time, and flopped face down on his bed.

“What’s going on, Scott. I didn’t get dropped here for no reason. Who are you expecting to call? Peter?” Stiles waited him out. Waited as Scott flipped like a burnt pancake and stared up at his ceiling. Waited as he tossed and turned and didn’t sleep. Waited.

Until Scott’s phone boldly buzzed and rang on his nightstand. Bolting upright, Scott squabbled for it and squinted at the caller ID.

“Finally,” he mumbled.

“Who is it?” Stiles asked the air.

“Where have you been.” Scott demanded, his voice as dark as his room. Stiles moved closer. “I can’t, I’m going to visit him in the hospital. No. No, I didn’t know.” Scott cast his eyes down to the carpet, kicking his bare foot across it. “Can you meet now?”

“NO! Scott, if it’s Peter, don’t-” Stiles discouraged.

“Fine.” Scott slammed the phone down on his nightstand and dressed in silence.

-

“Where are we going, Scott?” Stiles rasped, trailing behind his best friend. Scott kept to the shadows as he lurked toward the edge of town on foot, toward the preserve, and then used the cover of the trees to keep hidden. His hot breath rose up into the air as he navigated the uneven ground.

Scott halted just before a clearing, one that Stiles knew well. There was a familiar boulder to his right and then the dip of a canyon. They were staring at the edge of the preserve. Stiles could see the glow of Beacon County down below. This was where they hid Jackson in that stolen police transport van, where Scott had met Allison in secret.

Now, Scott seemed reluctant to step out of the cover of the foliage. Stiles waited silently behind him, eyes darting left and right, alert.

And then Stiles heard it. The voice of the smooth criminal that sent chills down his spine every time.

  
“Come on, Scott. Haven’t I proven yet that I’m trustworthy?”

“Why did you want to meet in the middle of nowhere.” Scott growled.

“With absolutely no witnesses except a powerless ghost, Scott, what are you thinking?” Stiles bellowed. “He’s up to something, I thought I told you that, why would you-”

“Let’s get straight to it, Scott. We both know why we’re here.” Peter said in a liquid-smooth voice as Scott stepped out from the cover of darkness.

“I want to save Stiles.”

“We both do, of course. And we both know what you have to do to accomplish that.”

“No.” Scott glowered. “There’s another way. There has to be.” His eyes flashed red.

“Maybe. But in order to know, you would have to diagnose what’s wrong with him. Have you done that?”

“He knows.” Stiles breathed, eyes wide. “Scott, he knows, look at his smug face! He knows what happened to me, and he knows how to fix it.” Stiles swallowed through the thickness clogged in his throat. “Tell him!” He bellowed towards Peter. “Tell him how to reverse what that freaking Flaze did to me!” He was breathing hard, suddenly light headed. 

“We need to know who summoned the Flaze.”

“And?” Peter urged.

“We….” Scott hung his head. “Don’t know.”

“Then you know the answer.”

“Peter, when you came back here and said you needed a pack, I thought you’d changed. I didn’t tell them, I kept your secret like you wanted. Even when Stiles…I had to lie to him. I helped you, trusted you. Which is why I know there’s no way you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting right now.”

“Of course I am.” Peter flexed. “Bite him.”

“What?” Stiles stepped back, appalled. “No!”

“He doesn’t want that!”

“You have no _idea_ what he wants.” Peter challenged quietly. “He’s unconscious.”

“I’ve never done that before, not on purpose. I wouldn’t know how.” Scott trailed off. “And what if he doesn’t make it? What if it…” Scott looked angrily out to the specks of light that was Beacon Hills. “What if it kills him.”

“And what if you do nothing? You know the consequences of letting him stay like this for too long. He’ll die. If you wait too long to make your decision, your friend is _going to die_.”

Scott shook his head. “He won’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Scott flashed his alpha eyes.

“Stiles is in there, wasting away day by day, minute by minute. You can smell it yourself when you go in there, I know you can. Deny it if you want to, he smells like death. More pungent every day. He’s dying, Scott.”

“No.” Scott whipped around to face the preserve and thrust his arms up over his head, closed fists trembling. His breath came hard and fast, the thick puffs of air rising hot from his mouth. “He won’t,” Scott told himself.

“Yes he will.”

“HE WON’T!!!!!!” Scott roared. 

Peter bent at the knee at the double baritone in Scott’s alpha voice, clutching his ears and pushing his nose down into the dirt. Stiles could see the muscles in his forearms go ridged. The strangled yell that erupted from him sounded as though it split Peter’s throat. When both werewolves ceased to scream, Peter hesitantly raised his face. He was transformed.

“Stiles. Is Not. Going. To die.” Scott inveighed, enunciating each word. “He’s strong. He’s a fighter. I don’t care if it looks bad.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Peter panted. “When you’re ready…to accept the truth…” His tongue smacked his lips. “To do the right thing…come find me.” Peter pushed himself up with as much dignity as he could muster and fled into the trees.

Stiles was shaking. He couldn’t be bitten. He didn’t want it. Without realizing where his feet were taking him, he found himself stumbling forward into the trees. He felt cold, something he hadn’t felt since he became this way, this ghost. He squeezed his fingers together but they felt numb. His head swam with thoughts of teeth dripping blood and alpha werewolves and Peter’s massive form when he turned.

Swallowing hard through the bile in his throat, Stiles continued to lurch into the trees. Festination felt more cathartic than delay.

“Don’t do it, Scott.” He mumbled to no one. “Don’t turn me. Don’t turn me. Don’t-” 

What else could Stiles possibly do? Peter was right; he was dying. Derek had confirmed that. “Don’t bite me,” he sobbed, dropping to his knees, his strength leaving him. He felt utterly hopeless.

The cracking of sticks and the cackling of leaves underfoot brought Stiles to attention. He followed the sound, knowing full well that chasing things into the unknown of the preserve is what landed him in this spot in the first place, yet finding it hard to care. He didn’t much care about anything at the current moment.

Eventually he stumbled onto Peter, who was still reeling from the resonance of Scott’s thundering voice. He looked down on his stooped frame and his lip curled back from his teeth, scrunching his nose. “Why would Scott ever trust you.” He spat quietly. “Everything you do is in self service. Always. How are you benefitting if Scott turns me, huh? What will one more lunatic werewolf do for you? Do you think I’ll join you, work for you? No. Not even if you threaten everything that I have. I will never. Help. You.”

“Listening, were you?” Peter sneered.

What? Peter could hear him?

“Heard every word.” Another dark voice answered from between the trees. Derek took a few measured steps forward to tower over Peter’s slumped form.

Jesus, that was annoying.

“Then you know that I was right.” Peter said. “Scott and his friends have no idea how to help him.”

Derek nodded. “You were right about another thing. Stiles won’t last like this much longer.” Derek huffed a deep, pained breath as he gazed into the trees. “Tell me." 

“You know the cost. Is it worth it?”

“You _set_ the cost.” Derek growled.

“I’m not going to tell you for free.” Peter intoned. “I need you to do something for me. I ask again. Is it worth it?”

Derek stared at Peter, a pensive look flitting across his features before he set his jaw.

“No.” Stiles didn’t know the consequence, but he knew that if it helped Peter, it wasn’t worth it. _He_ wasn’t worth it. “Derek, listen to me, okay? Don’t do it. Whatever it is, don’t give it to him. If it’s what he wants, it’s not-”

“For Stiles, it’s always worth it.” Derek whispered.

“NO!” Stiles lunged forward toward him, between him and Peter. “Don’t do it, Derek, don’t!” He cried desperately. But Derek moved forward, and Stiles had no choice but to move out of his way.

Derek didn’t break eye contact as he firmly gripped his uncle’s forearm. Black veins snaked their way up Peter’s arm, turning Derek’s knuckles white as his face scrunched in silent agony. Slowly, Derek sank to his knees as he let Peter drain the power from his body. It was Derek’s power that made Peter strong again, and when he stood, he towered.

Stiles knelt beside Derek, hands flitting helplessly over his curled body. “STOP! STOP!” But his silent voice did no good. Derek continued to crumple onto the damp Earth. Peter grew and grew until finally he exploded into his fully-fledged alpha shape.

“I will take my revenge.” He huffed. “After all of these years, after everything I’ve been through. _You will pay._ ”

He ripped Derek off the ground and carried him out of sight like a ragdoll.

-

Back in the hospital room, Stiles was screaming.

“SCOTT LISTEN TO ME! Peter took Derek, you need to hear me, alright, I NEED YOU TO HEAR ME!”

“Malia, come on, you’re here all the time. Now I need you to listen. You lived as a coyote, animals are more in touch with spirituality. I need you to tap into that! COME ON! MALIA!!”

“You told Scott about bardo, Kira. Look at me, okay, stop looking at the books and listen! PLEASE! Please look at me, tell me you can hear me!”

Stiles gripped frustrated fists into his hair.

“Okay, okay, calm down Stiles and _think_. You need to find her, how can you find her. Concentrate. _Focus.”_

He took a deep breath. In through his nose, fill your lungs, out through his mouth. He pictured her. Thought of Allison’s encouragement. Take the leap. Concentrate. Fly.

Stiles blinked, closed his eyes hard and _hoped._ Suddenly he was staring at a heavy set of metal double doors.

-

The double doors had one long, thin window that indented each. Peering through them, Stiles gazed around at an auditorium full of the backs of people’s heads. The place was packed. There were even people standing along the walls because every seat was occupied. Briefly, Stiles noticed two separate lines of about six or seven people grouped together on a stage, standing behind a long table - one for each group. A podium in the center of the stage separated the two assemblages.

The hallway where he had landed himself was deserted save for Stiles himself, so he assumed she had to be in there somewhere with the mass of people. The obnoxious sound of a buzzer pierced the air and a light from one of the tables – the one on the right side of the stage – caught Stiles’s eye.

He pushed the handle of the door but, dammit, _ghost_. He stumbled through the very solid looking door without a sound. Quickly righting himself, Stiles pulled on the hem of his shirt and looked around to make sure he didn’t cause a disturbance. He hadn’t. Obviously.

The auditorium was silent as the dead, but then someone said, “x equals five,” into a microphone and the audience on the right side of the hall erupted into whoops and cheers. Flags of blue and yellow shot up to wave in celebration and one brave soul with a painted torso stood to punch the air. Stiles looked up at the blue and yellow banner hanging above the stage and it clicked.

This was a math competition.

“Yes, yes that answer is indeed correct!” The enthusiastic announcer said over the din. Yeah, buddy. It seems like they knew that already. “That means Dartmouth still holds the lead, but only by one point! Stanford is catching up!”

So that’s where he had landed himself. The auditorium of Stanford University. Well, one of them. A place like this probably had several.

“Stanford, you need this question to stay in the competition. Dexter and Vinjai, you’re up!”

Two nervous looking young men, one from each team, converged at the white board in the center of the stage. “Okay, are you ready? Here’s your question.”

The auditorium fell silent once more. Taking a place along the wall, Stiles took the opportunity to survey the audience – even if it was only the back of peoples heads, he could find her.

The buzzer distracted him in his pursuit, but he was losing hope anyway. There were too many people. Seriously, how would he ever find her in here?

“3/4ths,” the skinny youth on the right said tentatively into the microphone. This time, the audience waited with bated breath. Harder question, Stiles assumed.

“That answer is…” The announcer trailed off. Dick. “Correct!” Once again, the entire right side of the auditorium positively exploded with yells and cheers. Stiles was glad he left his actual, poppable eardrums back in Beacon Hills. Poor Vinjai looked like he was about to faint. It was a full minute before the announcer’s voice registered through the cacophony.

“Alright, alright. That correct answer puts both teams, Dartmouth and Stanford, at an even score! We will now move into sudden death, one question, to determine the winner. The next correct answer will win the competition and the title of 2018 MATHCON Champions! Are the teams clear on the rules? Great. Will each team please send one player to represent them in this final round.”

There was a pause in the noise, which Stiles used again to rake his eyes over the audience. He stuck to the right side this time, assuming the woman he sought would be supporting her school. She was here, somewhere. He was sure of that. Stiles started worrying at his fingernails anyway. He was running out of time, and if he didn’t find her before the competition ended, Stiles would be lost in the sea of people exiting the auditorium and he would lose his opportunity altogether.

He didn’t have that kind of time.

“Okay, looks like Dartmouth will be represented by Mr. Jeremy Joyce, and Stanford will be represented by Miss Lydia Martin!”

WHAT?

Stiles snapped his eyes to the stage, his pounding heart rushing in his ears. _Of course_. Lydia was _competing_. His eyes bulged as he watched her sashay her way across the stage and throw her hair over her shoulder as if she were walking a runway rather than competing in some kind of mathalon. He marveled at the way just the sight of her, the mere sound of her name made is palms sweat.

Lydia. His lost friend. His last hope.

The last time he saw her had been over a year ago, but she hadn’t changed much. She didn’t need to. People often found themselves in college, grew up, blossomed into their own identities. Graduated from nerds with no friends to running the debate club; left the isolated corners of the library and joined the Quidditch team; drank so much coffee in the Starbucks lounge that they actually finished their screenplays. But Lydia had known exactly who she was since junior year of high school.

It looked to Stiles like Lydia had only honed her intelligence and enhanced her beauty. She still made everyone else in the room seem irrelevant.

After shaking hands with Jeremy, Lydia stood facing the dry erase board, patiently awaiting the question that could determine her team’s fate. Stiles had to smile; by the looks of it, she was the only one on stage who paired her team uniform – khaki pants and a blue collard shirt – with high heels.

“Competitors, are you ready?” Each gave a curt nod. “Solve this equation.” A bunch of numbers and letters appeared on the projector.

This was the first question to which Stiles paid any attention. He’s a smart guy, but even he wouldn’t have known where to start with the equation on the board. Lydia, however, didn’t hesitate for a second. Her hand flew the marker over the slick white surface, writing so vigorously that the movement shook her entire body, rippling her hair. Jeremy wrote just as quickly on the other side, and Stiles couldn’t read any of it. The entire auditorium held their breath.

Finally, Lydia whipped around to smack her buzzer. Her face was flushed as if she’d just run a marathon.

“Yes, Lydia!” The announcer gestured to her.

And then Lydia’s eyes pinpointed Stiles in the back of the crowded auditorium. She looked right at him, straight into his eyes.

The smile that lit up her face then was just for him. He knew it.

“x plus or minus .05”

“YES! That’s correct! Stanford wins!" 

Stiles was lost in a mess of bodies jumping up and hugging and cheering.

-

It had been a long time since Stiles was nervous about talking to Lydia Martin. He was waiting outside of the back entrance to the auditorium, trying not to make unnecessary contact with anyone.

The hallway was brightly lit and bustling, which was less than ideal for Stiles. The team members came out one by one, some being consoled by friends and family and others, patted on the back. Lydia’s father and mother were a few feet from the door, not arguing, but looking for all the world like they would both rather be standing with anyone else on the planet.

They both surged forward when Lydia pushed open the door, her father offering her flowers at the same moment her mother pulled her in for a hug. Lydia accepted gracefully, but when her eyes found Stiles, she excused herself.

Stiles met her eye and suddenly suffered and internal panic attack. He had a long road ahead of him.

Nodding towards a less crowded hallway, he led Lydia around a corner and down a ways, escaping the crowd. The last thing her parents or peers needed to see was Lydia conversing with empty air. Her mental health had been scrutinized enough in high school. If she was confused now, she’d thank him later.

As soon as Stiles thought they were alone enough, he turned to face her. And words cannot describe how much it crushed his heart to jerk back with raised hands when she threw her arms up to hug him and say gravely, “Lyds, we need to talk.”

-

“No. No, not again.”

“Huh?” Stiles furrowed his brow.

“Quiet!” She murmured, and her whisper was like shards of ice. She turned her back on Stiles and pulled out her cell phone. They were out on the street now, the cool, starry evening causing goose bumps to emerge on Lydia’s arms.

“Lydia, what are you doing?” Stiles croaked. This was not going the way he planned.

Lydia’s heels clicked as she hurried down the quiet street away from him. Her fingers, trembling now, moved deftly over her phone screen. Puffs of hot breath escaped unevenly through her red lips.

“Lydia, what-”

“Shhhh. Be quiet, be quiet!” She said again without looking up. She held the phone to her ear, and Stiles followed her as she tramped down the road. “I’m not seeing things again, this is not _happening_ again!”

“No, Lydia, don’t call anyone!”

“Stop! Stop following me! Stop talking to me.” She looked at the phone, frustration in her eyes. “Okay, relax, Lydia. Don’t panic. Deep breaths, this is all in your head. Stiles, why am I getting your voicemail!” She hit redial.

“You’re getting my voicemail because I’m lying on my deathbed! Sorry I couldn’t come to the phone right now.” Why, why was she finding this so hard to believe?

“Dammit! Stiles, _pick up_!” Her voice was becoming more and more hysterical.

“Lydia. Lydia look at me. Listen to me.” He stepped in front of her, stepped right into her space. Her body froze, hand rigid as it clutched her cell to her ear. She clamped her eyes shut “This is real, _I am real_! I’m here and I need you to look at me, to believe me.”

“Malia?” She asked into the receiver. “It’s Lydia. I need Scott, now.” She huffed a breath, her fingers going white from gripping the phone. “Just put him on the phone! Scott? Where’s Stiles.”

Stiles, the one that was standing with Lydia on the deserted road, shook his head. This was bad. This wasn’t what he wanted. Explaining this situation to Lydia hadn’t been easy, but he’d tried to be as gentle as possible. He hated himself for being the reason Lydia looked like she did. Like she was ready to crumble.

“Just tell me,” her eyes fluttered shut. She nodded gravely. “How long,” she breathed. Then her wide green eyes lifted to meet Ghost-Stiles’. “You should have called me. He’s here.” And she ended the call.

Her lips parted, wide eyes roaming over his face. Lydia took several deep breaths before speaking.

“It’s good timing,” she told him. “My team wouldn’t have won without me.”

-

“And then he took him. I don’t know where but it can’t be anywhere good. Anything from Scott yet?”

Lydia palmed her phone, barely glancing away from the deserted road to check her messages. “They’re searching the preserve, but no, nothing yet.”

Stiles clenched his fists. His lungs felt tight. “I don’t even know if Derek is still alive. And I can’t figure out what Peter’s planning, what his endgame is.” Stiles stopped to cough, attempting to dislodge the tension in his chest.

“That must be frustrating.”

Stiles side eyed her.

“You’re usually ahead of the curve in that respect, Stiles.” She said with a fond smile.

He nodded, gazing out at the empty road. Frustrating didn’t quite cover it. Stiles was doing his best not to let the absolute, overwhelming terror in his chest spill over. He coughed again, not doing a very good job of it. “Lydia, we have to stop him.”

“ ‘I will take my revenge’?” Lydia pondered. The drive from Stanford to Beacon Hills took about an hour, and it was the most painful hour of Stiles’ existence. But they were almost there, the turns now looking familiar. The hospital was ten, maybe fifteen minutes away tops.

“Mhmm.”

“Revenge for what? What did Derek do to Peter?”

“No idea. Derek’s been in London with Ja-” He stopped to clear his throat again, but this time he was thankful to cover his blunder. “…uh, with his pack, and who knows where the hell Peter has been.”

“Ireland.”

“What?”

“Peter’s been in Ireland.”

He squinted at her. “How the hell do you know that?”

She shrugged. “He checked in at the Blarney stone on Facebook.”

“You’re Facebook friends with Peter? _Peter has a Facebook_?”

Lydia glared over at him. “What century are you in? Everyone has a Facebook.”

“Derek doesn’t.”

“So Peter was in Ireland. Wonder what he was doing there.” Lydia’s thumb roamed over her phone as she scrolled through Peter’s page. Stiles tried to wrap his brain around the scariest Alpha werewolf he knew metaphorically poking someone.

Just then, Lydia’s phone lit up with a startling ring. Stiles jumped and scrambled to get a look at the caller ID, but Lydia was too quick.

“Scott?” She intoned. The glance she threw to Stiles would have frozen his heart, had his heart been physically with him.

“What is it.”

“You found…WELL KILL IT! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?”

Stiles gasped. It was becoming increasingly difficult to catch his breath. “The Flaze?”

“They found it! Malia, it lured her to –”

“No, don’t let Malia near it! She can’t control herself, it’s going to kill her. LYDIA!”

“She can’t go near it, Scott, don’t let her!”

Lydia was silent for a moment as she listened. Then-

“Peter? _You listened to Peter_?” Lydia screeched, outraged. She pulled the phone away from her mouth. “Scott met with Peter in the preserve again, after you left. He wouldn’t tell him where Derek was, but he told Scott to let the Flaze lure Malia to her, and then to attack her when she’s vulnerable.”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY THINKING!” Stiles bellowed. He tired to catch his breath, but the anger and fear were choking him. “Peter, they’re trusting Peter! WHY? Why…why would they…”

White spots bloomed it the corners of Stiles’ vision. “Don’t…don’t let her…” he wheezed. He needed to catch his breath. Staring out the windshield, he tried to focus on something unmoving. It was impossible, considering Lydia was driving faster and faster and faster and faster and…

He couldn’t lose Malia too, not her and Derek, and he could not freaking breathe. What the hell was that about, he needed to breathe, holy crap he was going to pass out, he was going to die. Stiles tried to take a deep breath, but the air hitched and sent him into another coughing fit, the most violent one yet.

“Stiles!” He heard Lydia screech, as if from a distance.

“Keep going!” He tried to say. “The Flaze…don’t…don’t let her…”

By then the coughs were the only thing he could think about. His chest felt clogged, like there was something blocking his windpipe. It rooted deep in his lungs, but then bloomed in his throat as well. Stiles choked, coughing harder and harder in a desperate attempt to catch his breath. He wanted to tell Lydia to keep driving, to get to the hospital because for some reason he thought that would help. Maybe Lydia pulled over. Eventually he couldn’t tell anymore if they were coming or going or stopped in the middle of nowhere.

Stiles’ vision blurred in and out, like a camera switching focus on two different things, one in the background and one in the foreground. It couldn’t decide which image to center on. Moving. Stationary. Darkness. Light. Back and fourth and nauseating him.

Something physical was lodged in his throat. It was a thing, an object. He pulled at it. A tube. He couldn’t see. He clawed at his throat, at the thing that was running into his mouth and down his throat and into his lungs! He yanked it and it seemed like it would go on forever, like a trick, a clown’s bandanas tied together and never-ending.

But then it did end, and after minuets of feeling like he was actually physically drowning, Stiles finally heaved an almighty, life-giving breath.

He shot upright. A bed. He’d been lying in a bed. Alone. In near silence.

He called out. “Lydia?” But his voice was so barely functional that even the soft rasp enflamed his throat. His hand flew to clutch his neck as he swallowed a dry gulp. He glanced around for water. Lydia was nowhere near him.

Because Stiles was back in his hospital room, surrounded by whirring and beeping medical machinery. An IV stuck in his hand, and he promptly tore it out. A globule of blood bloomed in its place. Was this real? Did this mean what Stiles thought it meant?

He clamored out of the bed, his limbs weak and awkward. Pivoting, he observed his bed, expecting to see his body like he always did. But his body wasn’t there.

He was back. He’d returned to his body.

Stiles counted it a good thing that Lydia barged through the door at that moment, because he’s not sure he ever would have moved had _someone_ not given him a reason to. Seeing her standing open mouthed in the doorway was the metaphorical slap in the face he’d required.

“Stiles,” Lydia said carefully. “Where’s your body?” Her phone was clutched in her palm.

“It’s here.” He half-whispered. “I mean, I’m here, I think I’m… me again.”

“Oh.” Lydia squeaked faintly.

Light from Lydia’s phone caught Stiles’ eye and he remembered. “Scott…Scott!” Stiles croaked, lunging for the cell and stumbling, catching Lydia’s outstretched arm to right himself. She tapped the button to put Scott on speakerphone. Forcing air through his windpipe was so tight it felt like squeezing a genie back into its lamp. “Scott, can you hear me? You need to kill the Flaze, you have to-”

“We did it.” Scott’s voice on the other end of the line sounded tired, but triumphant all the same.

He looked disbelievingly at Lydia. She smiled and nodded. _They killed the Flaze._

“That’s what did it. That’s what brought me back.” Stiles clenched and unclenched his fist, just so he could feel his hands.

“Must have been.”

“Stiles?” Phone-Scott asked. “Is that you?”

Stiles could practically visualize his friend’s hopeful expression through the phone. He chuckled. “Yeah, buddy. It’s me. Thanks for saving me.”

Scott shuffled the phone on the other end. Maybe what Stiles heard next was static, but if he knew his friend well enough, he’d guess it was Scott’s uncontrollable sniffles of relief. “I’m glad it worked.” Scott forced out in a rasp.

“I can’t believe Peter’s plan actually worked.” Stiles uttered. “I can’t believe he helped us.”

“He kept his word to Derek. He said he would save you if Derek gave up his power.” Even as she said it, Lydia looked as if it was unreal.

“Scott…Derek?” Stiles asked the phone.

“No. Stiles I’m sorry. Nothing…nothing yet.”

Lydia’s smiled slipped.

Stiles turned away from the phone. Of course they didn’t find Derek. That would have been too easy, wouldn’t it? And fate seemed never to be that kind to him. He had to remind himself to breath again.

“I can’t believe Peter actually helped them.” Lydia glanced out the window as if she might see Peter’s alpha form jump though it at any moment. “How did he know how to stop the creature in the first place?”

How _did_ he know? None of them could figure it out, even with the bestiary. “Wait, Lydia.” Stiles grabbed her arm. “Peter’s been in Ireland!”

“Yeah…?”

“The Flaze is an Irish legend.”

The icy surge of horror was clear in Lydia’s eyes.

“Scott, where are you?”

-

Stiles had thought Lydia drove fast from Stanford to Beacon Hills. He was wrong.

This time, she drove so fast Stiles couldn’t even focus on this trees skirting past the window. He stared at his own two feet and prayed that he wouldn’t upchuck the contents of his IV.

Melissa McCall hadn’t been on shift at the hospital, but Lydia was able to find a nurse quickly enough. Confused though she was at his miraculous recovery, there was nothing really _wrong_ with Stiles that she could see, so she wasn’t about to keep him there against his will. He wouldn’t have let her anyway, and he doubted the tiny, timid, pipsqueak of a nurse was going to break out the shackles and straight jacket, for the _sheriffs_ kid, _and_ Melissa’s stepson-to-be, in order to restrain him. He’d found his clothes and dressed at lightning speed (never did he think he would _put on_ his clothes so quickly for Derek’s benefit).

Lydia was forced to park at the edge of the trees and walk Stiles’ weak and weary ass all the way to the center of the preserve to meet his pack. It’s not exactly like his body was in jogging shape, having been steadily deteriorating for the last week solid.

Plus, it required all of Stiles’ energy to keep himself from thinking about Derek and the torture that was likely being inflicted upon him, worse and more creatively sickening by the moment. Peter was an innovative individual, and not stupid. He made sure Derek was virtually defenseless by taking his power, draining him of any dominance before he put his revenge plan into action. Keeping these fears at bay was occupying a large chunk of Stiles’ efforts…now he felt like he could sympathize better with the werewolves on the full moon. Stiles didn’t have the energy for much else.

Which is why it was extremely inconvenient that Jackson Whittemore was the first one to greet them in the center of the preserve. Who was the genius who let that happen?

The arm that Stiles was clinging to went stiff as soon as Lydia saw him sauntering towards them. However, that was the only part of her that gave anything away. Her face revealed not a hint of what must have been boiling beneath.

Jackson, who must have known she was coming, if not because Scott told him than because he could smell her flowery scent, spared her barely a glance. Normally Stiles would have been more sympathetic to the totally awkward situation that this was, but right now wasn’t the time. He pushed past it, letting go of Lydia’s arm and striding to meet Jackson.

“Good to see you in the flesh, Stilinski.”

“Yeah, thanks. Uh, you too.”

“So you think it was Peter who summoned the Flaze?”

“He was in Ireland. Checked in on Facebook, apparently. The Flaze originated in Ireland. And if he conjured it, he would know how to stop it.”

“Why would Peter care if you lived or died.”

“I don’t know, but that doesn’t matter now. We have to find Derek.”

“We know,” Scott said, not impatiently, jogging up to stand beside Jackson. “We’re going to find him Stiles.”

“Trust me, I need to find him just as desperately as you do.” Jackson said in a clipped tone. He, unlike Scott, seemed very impatient. When he glanced over Stiles’ shoulder, Stiles noticed something he hadn’t before. Jackson’s eyes were wide, angry even, and shifting at every small sound. His hands were clenching and unclenching in rhythmic bursts, and he danced from one foot to the other like he was standing on hot coals. He looked wild, practically twitching.

“You joined his pack,” Stiles guessed.

Jackson met his gaze and nodded curtly. The threat of his alpha in danger had him uncontrollably on edge.

“Peter was looking for you, Stilinski.” Jackson said, his voice dangerously low. “He conjured the Flaze to get to _you_. And now he took Derek, and we have no way of knowing where he is!”

“We’ll find him,” Scott tried to say, but Jackson trudge on.

“You better hope we find him, Stilinski, for you own God damn sake.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask Derek to come to my rescue, alright? I didn’t ask him to abdicate his alpha title, in fact I was trying to convince him _not to do that_!”

“When? When you were a ghost and no one could hear you? Maybe it would have been better if you died in that hospital bed, Stiles, then Derek would have never-”

“Jackson!” Lydia cried, outraged. Her heels pierced through dry leaves and she surged forward, placing a firm hand on Jackson’s chest and pushing him back, away from Stiles. The shake of her head was so minute that Stiles wasn’t sure he actually saw it at all.

Jackson flashed his cold blue eyes in Stiles direction, but didn’t utter another word.

Lydia turned toward Stiles. “He didn’t mean it.” She said gently.

“He’s right.” Stiles said.

“What?” Jackson piqued.

“No, Stiles, he’s feeling the absence of his alpha.”

“No, he’s right. I should have died. That Flaze should have killed me, but it didn’t. I survived. If whoever wanted me dead actually wanted me dead that badly, why didn’t they come after me again? I was completely defenseless, unconscious and vulnerable and practically dead already. Why didn’t someone come in to finish the job?” Stiles shook his head. He felt like he had a puzzle in front of him, and he was making progress, threading the pieces together but not quite seeing the whole picture yet. “You guys were there, sure, but not all the time.” Scott winced slightly at that, but Stiles didn’t have time to worry about his feelings right now. “There were times when I was alone. Completely alone. My dad, Melissa, no one was in my room. Anyone could have come in there and done anything to me…but they didn’t.”

No one touched him. It would have been simple. Derek came in twice and could have easily avoided Scott the first time if he’d tried. “Why didn’t anyone finished me off? Maybe…maybe it’s because the Flaze wasn’t meant to kill me.”

“Malia?” Scott guessed.

“No.” Stiles huffed. “Not Malia. Derek. Peter wanted revenge on Derek! The Flaze was meant for _Derek_.”

“It couldn’t have been,” Scott refuted. “He didn’t come back to the states until after you were attacked.”

“It was,” Jackson confirmed. He shook his head as if he was only just understanding it himself. “Meant for Derek. It was _sent_ to attack Stiles but…there was only one thing that could have scared Derek enough to flee the country. And one thing that could have brought him back.” Jackson was looking at Stiles like he’d never seen him before. “It was you.

“Peter wanted revenge on Derek, who knows what for. He’s a psychopath, it could have been for anything. But he needed a way to get Derek here. So he conjured the Flaze to attack the one person he’d come home for. He knew, because you were the person he _left_ because of. Of course he’d come back for you. It didn’t much matter if the Flaze didn’t finish the job, because as soon as Derek got wind of you on your deathbed, it was enough to get him on a plane. From there, Peter just needed to make Derek feel like he had no other option. In order to save you, he had to give up his strength. And Peter knew he would do it. He didn’t even have to be desperate. Peter just needed to make Derek believe that trusting him would save you.”

Jackson, Lydia, Scott, Kira and Malia – each and every one of them – gazed at Stiles as if he were suddenly a different person. As if Jackson’s revelation had placed him in a completely different category than he’d been a second ago. Before Jackson had spoken he was Stiles: their best friend. Now, after just a few tics of the second hand, he was Stiles: Derek Hale’s soul mate. That’s what each of their stunned expressions said.

“It seems almost easy.” Kira whispered. “Why did we-”

But she was cut off. All of the werewolves and Malia suddenly snapped their heads around to stare at the tops of the trees to their right. If they were actual animals, Stiles would have seen their ears perk up at a noise only they could hear.

“What is it?” Lydia asked.

Malia huffed in a whisper. “It’s a howl.”

Scott dropped his gaze to meet Stiles’ intent eyes. “I know where Derek is.”

-

“Stiles, What if it’s a trap?”

“What if it’s not!”

“We don’t have a plan.”

“I do: rescue Derek.”

“Oh, rescue Derek, sure, that’s easy, but what are you going to do about the fourteen foot alpha werewolf slash homicidal torturing psychopath that’s got him imprisoned?”

“Isn’t that homicidal psychopath your biological fath-”

As quick as a flash, Malia’s razor-sharp claws were caressing Jackson’s throat. “Do not even think the ending of that sentence unless you want your alpha to be rescued only to bury his only pack member.”

Stiles ripped Malia away from Jackson. They didn’t have time for this. “Keep going!” He bellowed.

“Scott, how do you _know_?” Lydia protested. “How do you know that’s where Peter is keeping Derek.”

“His howl came from that direction. But it’s more like…history repeating.” Scott didn’t turn back as he trudged through the preserve. “This isn’t the first time Derek has been trapped underneath the Hale House.”

“But, Scott, it just seems too-”

“Too easy?” Scott still didn’t turn, but Stiles thought he heard a faint chuckle in his next breath. “Don’t say that. Bad things happen when people say things are too easy.”

-

They made it to the edge of the preserve, just before the trees ceased to offer cover. Stiles’ heart was pounding, but he didn’t slow until Scott threw out an arm to stop him from plunging headstrong towards the Hale House.

“We can’t just go, we need to find where Peter-”

“No time for that.” Jackson sprinted past Scott, who wasn’t quick enough to stop him.

“Wait, Jackson!” Lydia plunged in after him, and it wasn’t long before they were all out in the open. The house loomed over them, silent and desolate as ever.

“Scott, where were they keeping him last time?”

“There was an underground passage,” Scott canvassed the area, sniffing and listening. All at once he zeroed in on the back of the house and ran over and then he didn’t say anything but the look on his face spoke volumes.

“Stiles!” He called. Stiles sprinted to his side, fighting with Jackson for space.

Derek was there. He was chained by the wrist in the depths of the underground tunnel just within eyeshot. The sight of him stunned them all, the three standing in the cave entrance and the rest clamoring for a look behind them. He didn’t even move when Jackson called his name.

Stiles was the first one to take a step towards him. No wonder he could only howl once. Stiles was almost surprised it didn’t kill him.

His clothes looked as if they had been shredded through a wood chipper. There were small bits of fabric strewn across the floor. Every single piece was soaked through with blood. Stiles avoided stepping on them as he neared closer to Derek. If Stiles couldn’t see the slow rise and fall of Derek’s chest he may have believed he was dead.

Stiles knelt next to him, reaching out, trying to figure out a safe place to lay his hand. Derek opened his eyes. They were nothing more that glassy slits. The cave was dark and silent, but Stiles wouldn’t have been able to see or hear anything but Derek even if a circus appeared.

“Stiles,” Derek attempted before his entire face contorted in agony.

“Yeah, I’m here.” Stiles found a relatively clean patch of Derek’s forearm and wrapped his long fingers around it. “What did he do to you.” Stiles breathed. The most concerning issue was the five-inch gash openly bleeding in pulses from Derek’s torso. Scott was there within seconds, Lydia trailing with a backpack of first aid. Lucky that Derek healed so quickly; Stiles was sure a human or a beta would be dead by now.

“Derek, can you hear me?” Scott asked him.

“Mmm.” Derek grunted. “You shouldn’t be here.” He looked up at Stiles.

“I’m not going anywhere. Shut up and start healing.”

“No, you shouldn’t be here.” Derek said more forcefully. He blinked his glassy eyes to clear them up and tucked his arm under his side to push himself into a sitting position.

“Derek!” Scott exclaimed. “Stop.”

“All of you need to go.” He glanced at Kira and Malia standing behind Stiles. “Jackson, get them out of here.”

“How about getting _you_ out of here.” Jackson retorted. Derek jerked his arm to rattle the chains restricting him. The fact that Derek could still scowl with the best of them made Stiles feel marginally better.

“You need to calm down, Derek, you’re in no shape to-”

“Peter’s the one,” Derek winced, clutching his side where Scott was wrapping him in gauze. “Peter’s the one who conjured the Flaze.”

“We know; Jackson figured it out.” Lydia said. “We just don’t know why.”

“So that all of you will _burn.”_

The gravely drone of Peter’s voice rang through the chamber. Each and every one of their heads turned to see him, wolfed out, locking the moss covered gate behind them.

Malia raced to stop it, only to collide with the metal rods. She wildly banged her fists against them. She screamed and thrashed but it did no good.

Peter swung his clawed hand at Malia, caught her cheek. “Why?” She screeched. “Why are you _doing this to us?”_

Instead of an answer, Peter kicked over a vat of gasoline. The liquid ran through the bars, seeped closer and closer to the pack, to where Derek was chained and immobile. There was no way to escape the smell, and it burned panic in Stiles nose. Derek jerked his fragile head as far away from the stench as possible.

Stiles looked desperately at Malia, at her gasoline-soaked clothes, and at Peter, and it was as if time stood still. The burned and dilapidated Hale House framed Peter’s massive body. And then it clicked. Stiles clutched Derek’s hand as it hit him. Before he knew it, was shaking. “Verstehen.” Stiles could barely breathe. “To understand other’s views of reality and the subjective aspects of their experiences. To Peter, it’s always been Derek’s fault.”

“And I will finally, after ten. Years. Exact my revenge.” Peter snarled, spittle flinging from his mouth, a book of matches waiting in his hands.

“Peter blames you.” Derek and Stiles locked eyes. “He blames you for causing the fire.” Stiles clutched his hands to his head because it just _hurt_. Derek blaming himself for giving Kate the information that killed his family was sick. Peter blaming him was…

What Stiles looked back at Derek, it was if he was silently begging his uncle not to light the match. His torn open expression said that everything Derek had worked so hard to heal since his family was murdered tore itself back open in one fell swoop.

He had killed his family ten years ago, and as he looked around now, he realized he was about to do it again.

But then Stiles was right in face. He shook him. “Look at me. This isn’t you fault.” Stiles’ hands were holding Derek’s face. He spoke quietly, only for Derek. “This isn’t your fault, alright? Don’t give up now. It’s not your fault.”

But it was, wasn’t it? It was his fault that his family burned. It was his fault that the Flaze attacked Stiles. It was his fault now that they were all going to die.

“Oh, come nephew, you’re not going to make this that easy for me, are you? I expected some resistance!” Peter banged so hard on the bars that all the wolves dropped to their knees, clutching their ears as the ringing assaulted them. All but Derek, who remained slack. “I’ll make you a deal. If you think you do not _deserve_ this, if you truly believe all of this wasn’t your own doing, then stand up to it. Stand up to me, and I’ll give you a real fight.”

“They don’t deserve this.” Derek glanced at Kira, at Malia.

“Fine. Take the chance to save them. Attempt to save your family like you couldn’t do ten years ago.”

Derek dropped his eyes and Stiles could practically see his descent into a helix of despair.

“Shut up,” Stiles muttered.

“Stand up to me, nephew. But you won’t, will you. Because you know this isn’t revenge. This is justice!”

“Shut up.” Stiles squared his shoulders to face Peter.

“Come on Derek. Stand up and fight. Avenge your mother, your sisters. Stand up and show your mate that it wasn’t your fault that he came _inches_ away from death-”

“SHUT UP!” And then Stiles couldn’t take it anymore. Peter couldn’t blame Derek, not ever again, not after Derek had made so much progress. He charged, full force, at the bars trapping them inside. Peter braced himself on the other side, but when Stiles collided with the bars, he pushed them- along with Peter- fifteen yards across the clearing and landed on the ground of the preserve with a crash and how the hell did that happen because Malia wasn’t able to move the bars an inch. They tumbled after they hit the ground and it made Stiles sick and cut up and dizzy and the wind was knocked out of his lungs so he couldn’t breathe. But then Scott was ripping him to his feet and tossing him even farther into the preserve and away from Peter.

When he finally got his bearings, Peter was in his full-fledged Alpha form. It was only then that Stiles fully realized exactly what Derek had sacrificed for him when he submitted to his uncle. Peter was even more terrifying than he had been the last time they had battled him at the Hale house, the first time Derek slit his throat. He slashed and swiped in an intimidating circle around himself, but the pack descended upon him. Derek tackled his legs and gnawed and clawed at his ankles while Scott hacked at his chest. Malia leapt onto his back and was digging her claws into the flesh beneath the fur.

Stiles watched in horror as Peter roared and was easily able to fling Malia over his shoulder, flipping her into a solid tree where she slipped down onto her shoulders.

Kira had obtained an extremely large and thick branch and snapped it over her knee to use as nunchucks. She held them aloft, mostly in defense, batting away Peter’s gargantuan paws as they lashed out over her friends. Scott caught a nasty gash to the cheek and several blows to the stomach. He never relented.

But Derek was Peter’s focus. Stiles wished he could say that Derek was holding his own, but it became less and less true as they fought. Derek slashed at Peter’s face, caught him in the eye; Peter sank his teeth deep into Derek’s shoulder. The pack would converge upon Peter at once; he would erupt from the coverage and force them all back. Then he would lunge at Derek again.

A flash of red blocked Stiles’ eyes as Lydia flung herself down to crouch beside him. Stiles clutched her to him. “He’s not fighting like he can. He’s not shifting all the way.”

“You have to help him, Stiles. Anchor him; get him to shift.”

“How?” Stiles’ mind raced. Telling Derek none of this was his fault, no matter how loud he screamed it, was not going to get through to him. Not now. “He submitted to Peter, he let him suck the alpha out of him.”

“Peter called you Derek’s mate. That has to give you some power, some way to give him strength!”

“I don’t know…” How. When. If the mate thing is even true.

“Stiles!?”

“I don’t know how!”

He looked on helplessly as Derek got knocked to his back so hard Stiles heard a stomach-churning _crunch_. Peter was blind to Malia charging him again and numb to Scott slashing at his hide. He advanced on Derek, who tried to push himself up, fell, and then scrambled backwards as quickly as he could.

And then Stiles did the only think he could think of to make Derek properly fight back. As Peter cocked his arm back, claws deadly and extended, Stiles lunged his body right between them.

The blow he caught to the head was disorienting, but it was the claws sinking deep into his stomach that were dizzying. It barley took seconds for warm, tacky blood, dark as molten ash, to ooze into his shirt and soak it through. It hurt, _fuck_ it hurt, and Stiles had almost forgotten what physical pain had felt like altogether. But he hadn’t tried to fight back.

Derek roared so loud he split his throat. And then his face, and then his body. Everything that was Derek split open and in its place stood a beautiful, terrifying, gigantic, silky black wolf. He leapt over Stiles, dodged a slap from Peter’s paw and sunk his fangs into his fleshy neck. When Derek pulled away, Peter’s neck came with him.

Peter fell, and it may as well have been in slow motion to Stiles. He felt like he was seeing things from under water, and breathing felt just as difficult as if he were drowning. Things went silent. Once Peter was down, Malia pounced on top of him and clawed his already chewed throat, slashing viciously until there was barely anything left to hold his head to his shoulders. When she relented, bits of skin mingled with the red of blood hung in flaps from her nails.

Derek shrank back into a man, and Stiles barely registered him running to his side because he was lying with his head on the ground and everything looked sideways. Soft red curls ticked his ears before they were replaced by Derek’s gentle but dexterous hands. Stiles was pulled towards Derek as he swaddled Stiles’ shoulders and head to his strong chest.

“…need to get him to Melissa…”

“…no time, there’s too much blood!”

“…Deaton’s, its not far, and I can…”

Stiles heard them all speaking, but he was lost at the moment. Derek had beaten Peter, and he was holding Stiles in his arms like he was his lifeline. Stiles got lost looking up at his face, at the point of his jaw, in his crystalline eyes. Why should eyes like his ever look so fearful?

This felt like a dream, but Stiles knew there was something important, something very important that he needed to say.

“Your fault,” he whispered.

Derek looked down at him. Things seemed to go quiet then. Derek looked confused through the rain on his face.

“What?” He practically sobbed.

“You’re fault. That I’m alive.”

-

Derek sat with him in the back of his Lydia’s car when Scott raced back to them with it in the preserve. Head rested on Derek’s knees, Stiles listened to all their strained voices. But he knew he was safe now. He had fought hard to live, and he wasn’t going to give up now.

Why were they all so worried? Stiles felt fine, no pain at all. His shirt was sticking to him but it was just blood, surely the oozing would stop any minute now. Scott was driving awfully fast. He should slow down. Maybe his dad would pull him over and write him a ticket. Yeah, that sounded like a good idea.

“Sshhh, Stiles it’s okay. You’re dad will be just fine.”

Well obviously. Because Stiles was going to be fine now. He’d be around to take care of him and love him and cook for him every day. And Melissa. They needed to have their wedding soon. People getting married was great. Maybe he’d marry Derek one day if Derek wasn’t such a big werewolf scaredy-cat and if he hadn’t left him last year.

“We’ll have all the time in the world to talk about that, I promise, but for now don’t waste your strength.”

Mmm, those fingers through his hair felt nice. Felt like when his mother used to rub his head when they watched movies together after dinner. He missed his mom.

Maybe he would see her soon. That would be nice.

 


	5. The Revenant

“…threw himself into the middle of…”

“…shouldn’t have done that, I was doing just fine…”

“…saved your freaking life…”

“… _idiocy_ …”

Well that was harsh. Maybe it was a point of errata in his life, but Stiles thought it was actually pretty brave. And gallant. And awesome. Although, he’s pretty shocked that he’s not dead right now. His friends’ chatter evanesced in and out, as did his consciousness. His back was stiff and he felt cold, especially in his fingers. His side felt bruised and torn. He counted the pain a good thing considering his ethereal state the last time he awoke from an attack.

“…better be thankful that he did.” That was Scott to his left, down by his hip.

“I told him to help, but I didn’t think he was going to charge head first into the middle of the two of you. His body was already weak…” Lydia said, dejected. She was down by his feet.

“He should have stayed where he was,” Derek spat. His voice was hard to place. “I had it covered.”

“Please, you wouldn’t have lasted another minute without me.” Stiles croaked. He felt more than saw everyone’s eyes jump to him as they ceased to argue. He was lying on a hard steel table in what was presumably Deaton’s veterinary office. He guessed werewolf claw slashes were not a common enough injury to explain away at BHMH.

Stiles attempted to push himself into a sitting position, but his arms quivered violently. A strong, solid hand pressed against his back to assist him and oh, there was Derek. His hand felt searing against Stiles’ chilled skin, even through his shirt.

“You’re freezing,” Derek astutely observed, running his hot hands over Stiles’ arms, which had erupted into goose bumps and seemed too cold to move with any sort of dexterity. Gauze hugged his torso from just under his nipple all the way down to bellow his belly-button and he was pretty sure those were stitches poking at his sensitive skin. Scott was getting good with his needle.

“Yeah, it’s freezing in here.” Stiles sniffed. Scott and Derek locked eyes. Stiles’ head hurt. He gratefully, if not greedily, accepted the dark gray hoodie that Scott passed over to him. He didn’t ask who it belonged to.

Stiles rubbed his hands together, hoping some friction would warm them. Derek rescued him from his impotent efforts when he engulfed both Stiles’ hands in his own. Stiles melted into the touch, but avoided Derek’s eyes.

“Peter’s gone?” He directed the question at Scott. His voice continued to come out horse from nonuse.

Scott nodded.

“Malia?” Stiles asked.

“Jackson and Kira took her to get her head checked out.” Derek said. “She hit it pretty hard when Peter flung her into that tree.”

Stiles glanced at Derek and bobbed his head slightly in acknowledgment. Everyone was okay. Everyone made it out alive.

“I’ll call them. Malia will want to know you’re awake.” Lydia dug her cell phone out from her bag by the door, pecked a dainty kiss onto Stiles’ cheek, and sashayed out the door.

“Derek.” Stiles’ voice broke on the name. It felt weird in his mouth, uncomfortable, somehow foreign. “Do you mind…uh. Can you go, um….” Stiles cast around him for a good excuse. “T-tell Lydia to call my dad too?” He palmed his eyes, half because his head was throbbing and half to escape Derek’s. “I don’t even know where he is…”

Derek immediately removed his hands from where they were caressing warm circles on Stiles’ back. When he didn’t hear the door, Stiles dragged his hands down away from his face and just barely caught the wounded look on Derek’s face before he tamed his expression into something more mild.

“Sure.” He said. Before he left, he removed his jacket and gingerly draped it over Stiles’ legs.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Scott visibly winced. “Dude,” he said. “Harsh.”

“Maybe.” Stiles shifted so his legs hung over the edge of the steel table. He kept Derek’s jacket tight around him. “But what am I supposed to say? ‘Thanks for showing up after ditching me a year ago to help save my life? Sorry I was used as bait to lure you home so your psychotic uncle could exact revenge for something that was never your fault in the first place? _I forgive you_ , let’s live happily ever after?’” Stiles shook his head bitterly. “It doesn’t work like that. At the very least he owes me an explanation and an apology.”

“Isn’t rushing home from another country to save your life apology enough?” Scott posed.

Stiles scowled at him.

“Speaking of apologies…” Scott shifted on his feet. “I should have told you about Peter. I’m sorry, Stiles. This whole thing, maybe it could have been avoided if I’d trusted you. I don’t know how to even begin to make this right…”

“You just did, Scott. It’s okay. We’re all okay.”

“We almost weren’t.” Scott whispered, looking miserably down at his feet. “Stiles, if you hadn’t made it out, especially because of a mistake I made-”

“But I did make it. I’m right here.” Stiles grinned at his best friend. “And I’m still freezing my ass off so could you please come over here before I get hypothermia or frostbite or something and warm me up.”

Scott, chuckling, leapt up onto the table and slung his arm around Stiles’ shoulder, who – there’s no other way to describe it – cuddled hard into Scott’s side, sought out the warmth of him.

“What made you trust him, Scott? Peter, I mean. What could he possibly have said that convinced you?”

“It wasn’t what he said, it was more his demeanor, you know? He wasn’t that arrogant asshole that he used to be. He was humble. Earnest. When he approached me, he wasn’t a power-hungry alpha. He was an omega looking for a pack to bond with. Or, at least, that’s the way he seemed.”

“He must really have wanted Derek dead.”

Scott heaved a pained sigh. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Scott, I understand compassion. I get wanting to give someone a second chance. But Peter had his second, third, and hundredth chances, and he blew them all! No, I take that back. He never blew them; that would imply that he actually tried to change. He _deceived_ us, every single time.” To Scott’s credit, he said nothing to defend himself. Stiles huffed and bumped his head against Scott’s warm chest. “Haven’t we covered this already? ‘Never ever disagree with me ever for the sake of your wolvlihood’?”

Scott chortled. “That sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Mmm. Live and learn, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Scott tightened the arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “So, you and Derek, huh?”

“There is no ‘me and Derek’.”

“But there was.” Scott pushed.

Stiles looked up at him. He picked at his fingernails, his defenses weakening. “I guess. For a few weeks, the summer before college, when I was living with him. It was-”

“Awesome?” Scott waggled his eyebrows, giddy grin spreading on his face.

“I was going to say brief, but…yeah, it was kind of awesome.” Stiles allowed himself one moment of nostalgia. Derek had been raw, animalistic, experienced, and everything Stiles had expected. What he hadn’t expected was the tenderness and vulnerability. He’d known that Derek would nip and lick his way down Stiles’ neck and chest and stomach and make his body feel things that it never had before in his life. He didn’t know that Derek would pepper soft kisses at the corner of his eyes and lightly trail his fingers reverently down Stiles’ spine in a post-orgasmic euphoria.

“But you know what was exactly the opposite of awesome? Him leaving.”

“Why’d he go?”

Stiles shrugged under Scott’s arm. “Wish I knew.”

A hesitant knock rattled the door. Derek poked his head through. “Stiles? Your dad’s here to take you home.”

Stiles gripped the edge of the steel table and gently eased himself down. Scott was beside him with his arms out, just in case.

“Walk me out?” He looked pointedly at Scott.

“Sure,” his brother agreed.

-

When Stilinski said he was taking Stiles home, he meant _home_ home. Stiles fell asleep next to his father in the cruiser after turning the heat on to full blast, a decision his father protested. When he awoke, they were pulling in to his father’s driveway. Stiles didn’t miss the way he parked all the way to the left instead of smack in the center of the driveway as per usual. Melissa’s SUV needed a place of its own.

His dad hadn’t asked what had happened since the hospital and Stiles didn’t offer to tell him. After all, Stiles didn’t expect his father to give Stiles the rundown of events every time he answered a 911 call. Maybe he got some info from Melissa. Maybe he really didn’t want to know, as long as Stiles was sitting next to him and not unconscious in a hospital bed or worse.

He thanked his father for the ride home and threw his arms around his middle in a hug that he hoped thanked him for more. Exhausted, sore, cold and limping, Stiles dragged his weak and weary body up the stairs and (carefully) plopped onto his unmade childhood bed. He was practically asleep before he could pull his shirt over his head and peel off his jeans.

The sun was just beginning to peek its gleaming face over the mountaintops.

-

Stiles slept all day. His father dragged his fingers over Stiles’ forehead to check on him before his eight p.m. shift, which woke Stiles up for about an hour. He used this time to go to the bathroom, shove an English muffin down his gullet, and shower, which was easily the most necessary thing he did with his time. He tried to check his phone, but it was out of juice. Stiles didn’t bother to charge it.

Then he slept all night. He woke up (freezing) in the morning for more food and more blankets, watched Friends re-runs for a few hours, and then slept that day too. He didn’t know if it was the continued attacks, the supernatural encounters, or his mutilated abdomen that was having this soporific effect. Either way, Stiles decided he was getting too old for this.

He also took note of the dark cloud that was souring his mood during the small gaps of waking hours. He should have been eternally grateful to all those deities he’d prayed to that each of his friends were alive and safe. He should have been bestowing many gifts and much food at Malia’s feet for the care she gave him when he was unconscious. He should have been soaking up every bit of Lydia before she decided she’d missed enough classes and needed to go back to school. He should have been hanging out at the apartment with Scott, if for nothing else than to prove that he wasn’t angry about him trusting Peter (which he so wasn’t). Scott was probably beating himself up over it.

He should have been doing all of those things. But somehow, he just wanted to ignore everything and sleep.

Finally, on the second night that his dad came to check on him before his overnight shift, Stiles was already out of bed. He was actually doing chores, if throwing his own dirty clothes into a laundry basket counted as chores. Stilinski came in and kissed the top of his head, saying, “It’s good to see you up, son.”

Stiles forced a smile as his dad clicked the door shut.

Carrying his laundry basket down the stairs proved to be a gargantuan task. Stiles had to pause at the landing to catch his breath and make sure he hadn’t busted his stitches. But he eventually made it to the washer. Just as he was twisting the dial to the setting that read “bulky,” Stiles’ stomach gave an almighty growl.

He _had_ to eat, he supposed.

He went for a grilled cheese and a steaming hot bowl of creamy tomato soup from a can. Thank God for comfort food.

Taking himself and his food to the couch, Stiles wrapped himself in a blanket before chowing down. The stars glinted alongside the streetlamps outside his window. Stiles had almost forgotten there was an outside world these past few days. He’d been sort of…isolated.

It wasn’t an accident.

Unfortunately, his phone buzzed from the charger on the table next to the couch. Probably his father’s doing, sticking it on the charger. Stiles eyed it with trepidation, dunking his grilled cheese into the soup and slurping drips from the bread. Ignoring it was the best course of action, he decided. His pack would have left him messages, he was sure. But so would another odious person that Stiles had no desire to hear from.

It’s not that Stiles thought he could avoid Derek forever. That’s not what he wanted. Just until they could see each other without having to discuss that awkward thing that Peter said in the preserve right before he used Stiles as a nail file.

Mate. He’d used the word mate.

Stiles had dabbled in mate research, sure, but there were so many theories, so much conflicting information, that it was impossible to decipher fact from fiction. Plus, he’d done much of his research online and the most important thing he discovered? Computers are information cesspools.

Channeling his inner sociologist (coach would be proud), Stiles had also done some field research. He’d asked Scott to describe his feelings for Kira with the question of mates in mind, but the way he defined those emotions sounded merely like human love. Personally, Stiles thought Allison had qualified more as a mate for Scott than Kira did, but he kept that unpopular opinion to himself.

Stiles had never heard the word uttered by another werewolf. He assumed there was no such thing. But Peter was born into the supernatural world. He would know the lore, have empirical knowledge that Stiles was never privy to.

Which is exactly what scared him. He didn’t want to be mated to anyone. Way too much pressure. Mating takes the freedom away from loving another person. Takes away the work, the hardship. It was not something Stiles thought was romantic.

Upon finishing his sandwich (he couldn’t stomach the entire bowl of soup; most of it went down the drain) he flipped over his phone. He hesitated at first, but then did it quickly, like ripping off a band-aid.

The most recent text was from Lydia. She wanted him to call her when he felt “up to it”. Fourteen calls and eighteen – nope, nineteen – texts from Malia. Kira, saying that she hoped Stiles was feeling better and that Scott lost his phone in the preserve. Apparently they had stopped over to drop off a casserole, which Stiles missed when he had opened the fridge before but was totally going to eat once he digested this grilled cheese.

But no messages from Derek. And even if Stiles were to undergo physical torture, he would never admit to the stab of disappointment he felt at that.

Back in his room, Stiles folded his clean clothes and arranged them in piles by the door. He didn’t commit to hanging them in his closet – that would imply he was staying here long enough to wear them. He did, however, change his sheets, walking the old ones, balled up, down the stairs and struggling to stretch the fresh ones over his bed corners.

He was just straightening up to admire his work when his window creaked.

If he weren’t still experiencing the lassitude of his injuries, Stiles would have jumped like a spooked kitten. Instead, his eyes twitched up to encounter Derek, ducking into Stiles’ childhood bedroom with unfair grace.

Stiles turned as if he hadn’t seen him and folded more of his shirts, placing them in their respective “going home” piles with care.

“Hi,” Derek said eloquently.

“Coming through the window.” Stiles tightened his mouth. “How original.”

“I knew you were alone.”

“And you waited for my dad to leave. Gallant.” Stiles maneuvered around him, snatching up a duffel bag (with as much hostility as his stiches would allow) and throwing it open on the bed.

“How are you feeling?” Derek asked, taking a step away from the window and closer to Stiles.

“Fine,” Stiles snapped.

Pills rattled distinctly in a bottle behind him. Stiles turned to see Derek palming his painkillers, unimpressed eyebrow arching skeptically. “I don’t need them.” Stiles barked. He returned to his packing.

Then Derek’s hand was splayed over his side, under his shirt, lightly resting over his stitches. Black veins snaked up his forearm and disappeared under the short sleeves of his maroon Henley.

Stiles lurched away from him, smacking Derek’s palm away in the process. Derek’s other eyebrow climbed to meet the first, accusation clear.

“What are you – You don’t have the right to – Can’t you _ever_ just – Did you come here for a reason?” Stiles spluttered.

Derek clenched his fists uncomfortably. “Yes.” He answered.

Stiles did a Chandler-esque flurry with his hands, but Derek remained taciturn. He was possibly the most frustrating human on the planet. Because it wasn’t fair that Derek could come back out of nowhere and make Stiles admit to himself how much he _missed_ him; it wasn’t fair that he could sneak through his window uninvited when Stiles was clearly trying to avoid everyone in order to feed his own depression; it wasn’t fair that Derek could know with a simple sniff of that air how much Stiles’ side actually hurt him. Stiles fisted his hair, doing his best not to let his heart beat out of control. He stared, and after a full minute of Derek _still not saying anything_ , Stiles had to start pacing. He strode the length of his room several times. Derek still didn’t speak.

“Fine, you want me to start?” Stiles ceased pacing and faced Derek. “I’ll start. Why’d you leave, Derek? What the hell happened to chase you away last year? Because from where I was standing, everything seemed alright. It was pretty freaking great, actually, like best week of my life, amazing, and then all of a sudden you were just GONE!” Stiles heaved a labored breath. “All it would have taken was a goddamned phone call to let me know you were leaving, at least to let me know that you left of your own volition. But no, you had to leave me wondering, teetering back and forth between freaking the fuck out with worry and cursing your fucking name because you made me feel so damn INADEQUATE!” Stiles seized a folded shirt and flung it across the bed. It flared opened in midair and barely grazed a ducking Derek. “And I still can’t fucking decide. I can’t decide if I hate the sight of your stupid face or if I…or if I….”

Stiles staggered. The skin on his side felt stretched, as if it was splitting apart. He clutched his ribs and then Derek was next to him, simultaneously easing him onto his bed and draining his pain. Stiles tried to squirm against him, but his touch felt curative.

But no, uh ah, no way was Stiles just going to let Derek help him and act like it was all okay because Derek was playing nice now. Accepting Derek’s help made Stiles feel like a traitor against himself, because he wasn’t done ranting, no way, he certainly was not.

Glaring, Stiles took some time to catch his breath. Maybe the rage in his eyes would burn so hot that lasers would shoot out of them and explode Derek’s head. Derek let Stiles push him back to allow him his space.

Stiles gritted his teeth, gnashed them together furiously. It wasn’t easy to say what had to be said next. “I don’t want to hate you, Derek.” Stiles looked up at him. “But at the very least, I need-”

“An explanation and an apology?”

Heat flashed across Stiles’ cheeks as Derek repeated his own words back to him.

“You weren’t supposed to be listening to that.” Stiles growled, low and menacing.

Derek folded at the waist so his face was level with Stiles’ on the bed. “You’re not going to get _any_ explanation.” He growled. “I did what I did for a reason, and I would do it again in a second. Isn’t Scott right? Isn’t rushing back to Beacon Hills sufficient enough as an apology?”

“You weren’t supposed to hear that!” Stiles bellowed, fisting his comforter. “Just because you _can_ hear through walls, doesn’t mean-”

“I’m glad I did!” Derek thundered, accusatory finger poking towards him. “I’m glad you haven’t learned anything! You chastised Scott for lying to you about Peter, but I heard you lie to him with your next breath!”

“WHAT?” Stiles mouth dropped open. “When?” When he said he’d forgiven Scott? When he’d said sex with Derek had been awesome? Because both of those things were true.

“You told Scott you had no idea why I left.”

And that…that hung in the air between them. It thickened the room with tension. Stiles could barely process that. Derek had obviously gone insane in London. Stiles scrunched his face in utter shock and confusion. “What are you even _talking_ about?” He sputtered.

Derek dropped his gaze, tone softer. “You know why I left, Stiles. I know you’ve put it together by now. I didn’t want to hurt you, but that’s why I had to go.”

“Derek,” Stiles warned, yanking on his overly long hair. A frustrated groan tore out of Stiles’ throat. “If you don’t start explaining yourself, I’m going to throw you out that fucking window. Trust me, defenestration will be cathartic, but it most definitely won’t help-”

But Stiles didn’t finish. In fact, he clamped his mouth shut so fast and hard he was surprised he didn’t crack a tooth.

Derek had torn away from Stiles and aggressively crossed the length of the room in two long strides. He thrust his arms above his head and threaded his stiff fingers together. And then to Stiles’ utter shock, Derek _sank_ to the ground. It was as if someone had sucker punched him in the gut and he’d doubled over in pain.

Nothing could have prepared Stiles for what came next. He wasn’t sure, but he would have bet his college fund that he heard Derek sniffle. He was breaking down.

Stiles was blindsided because Derek freaking Hale was crying on his bedroom floor in the same spot where he used to cry when his parents punished him for misbehaving. What. The. Hell.

“Derek.” Stiles cooed softly. He got up and placed a cautious hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me, it’s okay.”

“I’ll tell you.” Derek replied gruffly.

They stayed like that for a long while. Long enough for Stiles to consider a dozen different faults Derek may soon confess to for leaving. New reasons, and that was a feat considering how many he’d come up with in the past year. He could write a book with all the various scenarios he’d dreamed up.

“I loved you.” Derek said.

And that. That was not one of the reasons that Stiles had considered.

He tore his hand away as if he’d been electrocuted and stumbled back several steps. “You… _what_?”

“ _That’s_ why I had to go.” Derek cried.

Stiles scrunched his eyes closed and pushed his hands up to squeeze his temples. He tried to connect the dots, but…

“That…I don’t…” His head throbbed. “That doesn’t make sense.” Was Derek playing with him? Was he placating him because of his injuries?

“Stiles…” Derek’s face pinched in pain and no, Derek’s face should never look like that, especially when saying Stiles’ name. “Everyone in my life, every single person that I’ve ever cared about, ever loved, is dead. Dead! First it was Paige. I didn’t know if I was going to live through that, so I leaned on my mother. Then she was gone too, along with the rest of my family. All except Laura. She was all I had, before she was fucking _murdered_! Are you starting to see a pattern here? Paige. My family. Laura. Peter. Erica. Boyd. All of them gone. Don’t you get it? I wasn’t going to be the reason that I lost you too.”

Tears burned Stiles’ eyes.

Blame. That’s why Derek left. Because he couldn’t stop blaming himself. How long was he going to punish himself?

Stiles marched right up to Derek and locked onto his hazel eyes. “Ennis. Gerard. Peter. Deucalion. Those are the people to blame. Those are the murderers, Derek, not you. Why can’t you see that? No, look at me. Those deaths were not your fault. You know what is? The fact that I’m alive right now! You’ve saved me more times than I can count. You’ve saved Scott and Malia and Kira. Derek, you’ve saved all of us. You have to stop blaming yourself, do you hear me?”

“No! It’s not that easy. You can’t just tell me to be okay and then all of a sudden I’m absolved. It doesn’t work like that.” Derek flared his nostrils. “And it was different with you, Stiles, it was different than with Paige or with Erica and Boyd. It was perfect, because with you it was always hidden. It was always simmering just below the surface. It was protected under layers of banter and death threats and that made it safe for you!” Derek’s face was pinched. “I knew the second you made it real that I would have to leave. You just…. You cause less destruction to a place when you leave it.”

Speaking of things that were bubbling just below the surface, Stiles found it almost impossible to quell his feelings any longer. There were so many emotions stewing around in his belly that he didn’t know which to deal with first. The Russian Roulette bullet hit anger. “You caused destruction here _by leaving_! You think you didn’t destroy me when you left? I was a freaking mess, Derek!” Stiles rushed at him, splaying his hands over Derek’s chiseled chest and shoving him. Derek afforded him one step back.

“I hoped every day that you would come back. And hope is a bitch, because it never lets you give up. I never stopped looking at my phone and hoping it was your name on the caller ID. I never stopped hoping that I would try to pull into my driveway and your Camaro would be blocking my way. Never. Stopped. Hoping,” Stiles punctuated each word with a shove. “That you would give me a call, or a text, or some kind of sign. That you would one day come back and tell me you wanted me, you were sorry, maybe even that you loved me. But you didn’t! You didn’t!” With one final shove Derek’s back hit the window. “You didn-”

And then Stiles had his back against the wall. Derek had turned them around so quickly Stiles barely saw him move. Strong hands tightened like a vice around the back of his neck and at his waist, and all of a sudden he was sandwiched between Derek and the window, Derek’s whole everything pressing him into it. Stiles opened his mouth wide to let Derek’s tongue all the way in. His hands were steadfast and heavy on Stiles’ body, but Stiles was frantic and groping every inch he could reach. The kisses were messy and desperate; Derek barely let Stiles breathe and Stiles did his best to keep up.

Both their shirts ended up on the floor and how did that even happen when Stiles couldn’t remember their mouths ever breaking apart? Eventually they did break, but only so that Derek could spin Stiles around and force his hips against the window from behind with his own. Stiles wasn’t complaining, but he also wasn’t done kissing. He leaned back to ravage Derek’s mouth again while Derek went to work on both their jeans. Stiles’ hard dick ended up pressed against the window for the world to see, but he found it difficult to care. Sorry, neighbors.

One of Derek’s arms slid around to hold Stiles’ chest. If there was a part of their bodies that wasn’t plastered together, Stiles couldn’t find it. He reached his own arm back, gripping Derek’s neck to pull himself even closer, needing to slide his tongue farther into Derek’s mouth.

Both of Derek’s hands planted on Stiles’ hips and _pulled_ , and if Stiles hadn’t known Derek was hard before he certainly knew now. His own erection ached for attention, but Derek wasn’t the type to oblige him without a little bit of torture. Instead, sure fingers traveled around to massage his ass. Warm, wet kisses were sucked down his neck and shoulders and it’s a good thing Derek let him breathe because he barely could with Derek’s fingers that close to his asshole.

“Lube?” Derek croaked.

“Nightstand.” It was probably expired but it would do the trick. Stiles was no fucking virgin.

Derek pushed away from him and Stiles’ entire back went cold. Panting, he braced his hands on the walls around the window. If he didn’t catch his breath now, he’s not sure he ever would.

Lube squirted from behind him and then Derek’s fingers were on Stiles again.

“Tell me what you want.”

“JesusfuckingChrist I want your massive dick inside me.”

Derek huffed against his shoulder. “Eloquent, as always.” He slid one finger inside, and then another working Stiles open slowly, with care.

“I want you.” Derek declared in his ear.

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, I got that, Jesus.”

“And I’m sorry.”

Stiles gulped.

“And I do love you.” And Stiles was currently getting fucked in the ass by Derek Hale’s deft fingers but even then it didn’t sound like pillow talk. It sounded real.

Stiles was never going to get tired of hearing that ever again.


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue

-

There are some people in the world who only see their families at weddings and funerals. Maybe this is because of work. Possibly because of geographical restrictions. Or maybe families lost touch because they just didn’t freaking like each other. Sure, you’ve got to pretend to like each other, even love each other, but it’s only because these people are labeled “family”. Face to face it’s, “We should get together soon!” and “The kids are getting so big.” When, behind your back, they whispered “You know, Jackson never says I love you to his parents,” and “I heard he’s been asking about his _birth mother_!”

Jackson couldn’t blame losing touch with his parents on geography. England isn’t that far away from France, about a two-hour train ride, but it’s practically Mars from California. 

Jackson rarely saw his parents and the rest of his family because they weren’t really his family. His true family, the one he felt an inexplicable yet undeniable bond with, was here, ironically, at a wedding behind the Hale House. It was a small wedding, close family and friends, but absolutely beautiful. 

The house was looking more like an inhabited home than an abandoned foreclosure each day, thanks largely to Derek, Scott and Jackson himself (although Stiles wanted to take most of the credit for loquaciously barking orders from his various seats on the porch or the kitchen countertop or wherever Derek saw fit to place him). Jackson had been worried in the days before the wedding; it seemed that their hours of demolishing, building, cleaning and repeating were only creating more chaos around the house and yard than had even existed originally. But the house and yard had really come together in the last few days. The pack had set up chairs behind the house facing an elegant lavender archway, built single-handedly by Scott, with the preserve as the backdrop. 

Melissa looked radiant in her simple eggshell dress, the silk cinching at her waist and falling elegantly over her hips. Malia and Kira had weaved small daisies through her gently waved hair and Lydia had placed the flowers with fuller petals artfully over the archway. Melissa’s dress swept the dirt at she shuffled her feet but the Sheriff took her hand to quell her nerves. He didn’t even wear a jacket. The soft, white cotton button down and black pressed pants did him justice enough.

As the Sheriff and Melissa said their vows from the plinth below the arch, with Scott and Stiles standing to support them both and Deaton officiating, Jackson’s gaze wandered to his left, to admire the beauty of a lachrymose Lydia. She really was very beautiful when she cried. Jackson gently caught a tear on her cheek and she offered him a simper. To his right, Derek folded his hands in his lap and looked past the ceremony, his unwavering gaze focused on the best man. Those two seriously needed to work their shit out. Like, Derek raced back from England to save Stiles and Stiles jumped in front of Peter to save Derek, but mention the word “boyfriend” and suddenly everyone has business in another room. 

The small crowd makes a huge ruckus as the Sheriff gives Melissa a chaste kiss and then motions for both Stiles and Scott to swoop under his and Melissa's arms for a group hug. Lydia shows a rare moment of vulnerability when she rests her head on Jackson’s shoulder – he takes the once in a lifetime opportunity to sweep his arm across her shoulders and clutch her to his side. She doesn’t bite his head off, so he counts it as a win. Kira snaps a photo of the newly-stitched-together family, arm in arm, each of them with beaming smiles from ear to ear.

They’re in for a happy little life. Jackson could feel it.

After the ceremony ended, the boys broke down the chairs and the girls retrieved the food from the freshly renovated kitchen. Derek had purchased kitchenware specifically for today (and he still wasn’t Stiles boyfriend, sure). Lydia let Jackson help by tossing the Greek Salad complete with Kalamata olives, fresh feta cheese, and a tart olive oil dressing. Stiles, Derek, Kira and Malia had prepared eggplant parmesan with cheese bubbling on the sides of the pan, grilled Salmon with a homemade lemon butter drizzle, roasted chicken garnished with rosemary and thyme over sweet potatoes baked in truffle oil…Jackson was salivating. The entire wedding sat at one long picnic table under the setting sun in the copse behind the Hale House, chatting between mouthfuls of homemade rice pilaf and Mexican lasagna. 

Lydia opened several bottles of red wine and poured a glass for each guest in turn. By the time she had gone around the table once, several guests were filling themselves up with a second pour. Lydia chose a seat next to Jackson in the middle of the table, swinging her long legs over the picnic bench with more elegance than anyone had ever achieved while straddling a picnic bench in sky-high pumps and a cocktail dress. At one end of the table, Stiles was talking a mile a minute with his new family. Whatever anecdote he was sharing had Melissa and Scott doubled over with laughter while the Sheriff hid his cherry red cheeks (flushed with wine or embarrassment, Jackson wasn’t sure) in his hands. Jackson even caught Derek chuckling through his mouthful of food. By the end of the story, Stiles was half standing, as much as the picnic bench would allow, and gesticulating so much it was over-the-top even for Stiles. Wine may have been a causing factor in that, too.

Jackson noticed that Derek hadn’t touched his glass.

On the other side of the picnic bench, Deaton and Chris were bent over the table towards each other, intensely discussing the logistics of faerie social and political nuisances, while Raf and Parrish attempted to converse over their heads about gun control laws in California. Directly across the table from Jackson, Liam pecked a content-looking Hayden on the forehead, ignoring Mason to their left who was pretending to vomit into his wineglass. 

Kira sat directly next to Jackson on his right. She was naturally taciturn in crowds, but today Jackson could practically feel her glowing with contentment, brighter and warmer every time Scott twisted a hand in her hair or scooped food into her plate before serving himself. Malia and Danny sat across from Scott and Kira, but, by the time the Sheriff and Melissa were cutting into their wedding cake, Danny had scooted closer to Mason, leaving plenty of space between him and Malia and not much space at all between himself and Mason.

The cliché of the bride and groom smearing wedding cake on each other’s noses felt less like a cliché when the Sheriff and Melissa did it with giant smiles on both their faces. 

Jackson couldn’t help cracking a grin himself.

“You know, the weather called for rain today,” Lydia said, her eyes rolling up toward the twilit sky.

“Someone knew that today was too important for rain.” Jackson answered. His eyes were dragged involuntarily to the other side of the picnic table, to the empty seat across from Chris Argent. Deaton and Parish sat across from Chris and Raf, but they kept enough distance between them as if to save the spot for another person. 

Jackson looked back over at Scott. His arm was around Kira, but his eyes were married to that empty seat. His eyes held a content glimmer, and he was smiling.

-

After dinner and desert was cleaned up, the bride and groom had their first dance. Lydia reached out for Jackson’s hand and softly asked, “Dance with me?”

And how could he say no to that?

“Will you be going back soon?” She asked with her arms around his neck.

They swayed together. “To London?” Jackson glanced at Derek, with his cheek pressed against Stiles’ temple a few feet from him and Lydia on the dance floor. “I doubt it.”

Was it just him, or did Lydia look pleased? He wasn’t sure if he imagined her pulling him a little bit closer, her cheeks getting just a touch rosier. She was a master of subtlety.

So when she held his lips in her gaze, slid her body closer, and kissed him…did that mean something too? Who’s to say?

Jackson imagined he’d have the rest of his life to try and figure it out. 

-

The music stopped before any of them were ready to let the night go. The Sheriff and Melissa had long since retired to their home, but many of the party guests were still swaying together on the dance floor, picking at the leftover wedding cake, hiccupping over a fourth glass of wine, or examining the herbs Derek was growing on the edges of the preserve (Deaton).

“This was a beautiful night.” Lydia said with veneration. They were walking the length of the yard, just on the edge of the woods. They made sure not to step on Deaton, bent over in a patch of dirt a few paces back. "Nearly perfect."

“Nearly?” Jackson took Lydia’s hand and weaved his fingers through hers.

“Mhmm.”

“You’re killing me here.”

Lydia smiled her coy Lydia Martin smile, but did not elaborate. Before Jackson had the chance to pry, Stiles’ voice floated through the yard.

“…not saying it’s stupid, exactly.”

“Stiles, you just said the exact sentence, ‘marriage is stupid’.” Derek chuckled.

“I’m just saying, commitment can come in many forms, and philosophically human beings don’t need a symbol, like a ring, to be committed. Marriage is a way for the government to keep tabs on what you’re doing, to make you file for another license, to create yet another societal norm for people to ‘aspire to’ even when they might not…Oh my God.”

That is the moment that Derek chose to bend his knee and pull out the small, dark green velvet box from inside his jacket pocket. “Stiles, will you m-”

“YES!” Stiles dropped to his knees and kissed Derek harder and wetter and longer than Jackson thought anyone had ever kissed anyone ever.

“Perfect.” Lydia said fondly.

And Jackson finally felt like he was home, with his family, where he belonged.


End file.
